


Cameras Flashing

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Coming Out, Famous Louis, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Famous Harry, Omega Louis, PR relationships, Practice dating, Scenting, Slow Burn, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 81,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his breakout single platinum three times over and his second album still selling out in stores around the world, Louis Tomlinson has made it to the top. However, his position as Pop Heartthrob of the Decade is threatened by the edgier, more artistic Zayn, who happens to be releasing an album a week after Louis’ upcoming third. Louis needs something groundbreaking- scandalous, even- to push past him in the charts. Much to Louis’ dismay, his PR team calls in The Sexpert. </p><p>Consulting with PR firm Shady, Lane and Associates pays the bills so that Harry Styles can spend his down time doing what he really loves: poring over data. On weekends and late into the evenings, he researches gender, presentation, and sexual orientation, analysing the longitudinal study that is his father’s life’s work. That is, until his newest client, the popstar with the fascinating secret, drags him off his couch and frighteningly close to the spotlight. </p><p>As the album’s release date approaches, will Tomlinson and Styles be able to pull off the most risky PR scheme of the millennium and beat Zayn in sales or will the heat of their feelings for each other compromise everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lululawrence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lululawrence/gifts).



> I love you, lululawrence, and I loved your prompts. This is from the first one on your list.... vaguely... The pieces are all there- Harry works with Nick, Harry meets Louis at an industry event, Louis is closeted, Harry discovers this, they become romantically entangled, Louis comes out- but I was more than a little distracted by this simple tack-on comment: ‘and if you'd like to make any of these a/b/o as well, i'd kinda die of happiness.’ I mean, I don't want you to die, but I hope you come close and that it's a very happy near death experience. 
> 
> Thank you to S for looking over early pieces of this and encouraging me to continue. And thank you to my betas/cheerleaders K and E whose running commentary became wonderful motivation to see this through. You guys- my heart is so full. This work would not be what it is without them. They had so much patience, what with the length of the fic, my _deadline problem_ , and my terrible tendency to obfuscate the meaning of nearly every sentence by leaving behind an excess of typos. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> **Warnings** : Fic contains mentions of anxiety; non-con elements typical of an A/B/O universe, as well as misogyny, internalized misogyny, heteronormativity, homophobia, and probably also transmisogyny; original characters (including made-up families and co-workers); uncommon and debatably inaccurate characterizations; handwaving about the realities of celebrity PR teams (and what _actually_ sells); and possibly squirmy fandom meta. Also, it's unbritpicked.
> 
> Oh and you should probably listen to 'Wolves' on repeat while you read this.
> 
> ETA: This fic includes some world-building around A/B/O dynamics. If I've done my job well, everything should make sense in context. However, if you want to read up on the A/B/O trope, [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644/chapters/665489) is a good primer. I've also added a key explaining some of the terms specific to this fic in the end notes.

“Is that a new tattoo?” Nick asks, pointing to Harry’s wrist. 

Harry glances down. The skin around the newly inked anchor is red and raised. He’d forgotten to clean it properly this morning. He raises his eyes back to Nick and nods. 

“What is it?” Nick asks, squinting. “I can’t quite tell.”

Harry holds it out to him. 

Nick shakes his head and pushes Harry’s hand away. “I know what it is. I’m just making a point. I hate sitting in this fucking shit booth in the back here when it’s gorgeous outside. Think of all the dogs we’re missing.” 

“Last time we sat outside a fan of yours created a blog dedicated to our secret love,” Harry explains. He widens his eyes in mock horror to add in loud whisper, “Our secret _Ala_ love, Nicholas!”

“Piss off. I know you don’t care.” Nick tilts his head, eyes catching on the basket of bread sitting between them. Harry knows he won’t eat any. He’s watching his weight again. He only suggests this particular brunch spot when he’s dieting. 

“I don’t care if people think we’re a thing.” Harry looks down. “I just don’t like strangers on the internet knowing my name and presentation. It’s weird.” 

Nick chokes out a laugh. “Be honest, Harold. You don’t like anyone knowing your presentation.” 

Harry scrunches his nose. “A few people.” 

“Name one.” 

“My mum.” 

Nick laughs. Harry does, too. Nick’s right, of course. Harry doesn’t like people knowing stuff like that about him, never has. He’s not interesting anyway. Sure, he’s a scenter, an Alpha from a long line of Alphas. But he’s a boring Alpha, likely to die alone in his bed with his phone smooshed against his face, tumblr app open to a video of Niall Horan’s latest winning putt. 

“Bad news then, mate, because you owe me one and I have decided how I want you to repay me. It involves a public appearance.”

The waitress arrives with their food. Nick sighs, long and loud, at the sight of his salad. Harry pulls his bowl of potato soup close and allows himself a small smile. He’d make a terrible public figure. No way in hell he’d let a PR team or an adoring public dictate his brunch options. 

“I owe you one?” Harry asks. He’s certain he owes Nick nothing, but he’s curious how Nick’ll spin it. 

“For getting you out of the Brits last year.” Nick gestures with his fork. “I told Max your presence would have stressed me out.” 

“My presence _would_ have stressed you out. It always does. You spend too much time checking to make sure I haven’t disappeared into the ether or fallen down the toilet.” As far as Harry’s concerned, Max had made the most practical choice allowing him to stay home and watch from the comfort of his worn, leather couch. Harry hates crowds and cameras. The Brits are always teaming with _press people_ and Harry’s discomfort is distracting for his coworkers, simple as that. “I don’t owe you for acting in your own self-interest.” 

Nick shakes his head. “You’re impossible. You’re also going to help in the press room for the Big Weekend next Saturday morning. As a personal favor. To me.” 

“I’m not,” Harry says and takes a bite of soup. 

“Yes, you are,” Nick pushes. He won’t give it up either, Harry knows. Nick might be an Alpha Loving Alpha, but he’s not soft, whatever the stereotypes leading authorities on the subject, such as the acclaimed author of _Presentation Nightmares,_ would have people believe. Nick can be a real knothead.

“I won’t. There’s no reason for me to be there. Showing up to events is not part of my job, nor should it be. I hate it and I’m liable to fuck things up.” 

Nick opens his mouth and then closes it. Harry knows that he wants to argue the point, say that Harry is part of his PR team, that it _is_ Harry’s job, but they’ve had this fight before. Harry has the PDF of his contract saved in the cloud, all 136 pages of it. He’s ready to pull it up and go through it point by point as proof. His title is Image Consultant and he specializes in gender, presentation and sexual orientation and unless Max or Jake specifically request his presence for a reason relating to the above specialization, he is not required to show up for any events. 

“Louis Tomlinson will be there,” Nick tells him, poking at his salad. Harry doesn’t think he’s taken a bite of it yet. 

“Cool,” Harry says. Louis Tomlinson is hot shit right now, sure to boost ratings. He’s also a Shady Lane client, so Harry knows that he’s launching a new single this week.

“He’s just your type,” Nick continues. 

_Oh_ , Harry sighs, _Nick’s trying to lure me in with a boy_. Which is a new tactic. Harry’s not sure why he thinks it’ll work. Harry’s never shown any sign of being distracted by boys before, or girls, for that matter. Because he isn’t; Harry has never found anyone more interesting than his work, much to his last boyfriend’s dismay. 

(With one notable exception, he’ll admit.

But the likelihood of Niall Horan showing up to the BBC’s Big Weekend is low, considering he’s scheduled to play a tournament in Dallas, Texas.) 

“I don’t have a type,” Harry tells him. It’s an out and out lie- all of Harry’s exes have been blue-eyed Betas, a little on the small side, with sharp senses of humor and inquisitive dispositions- but Nick has no way of knowing that. 

“I know you, Harry Styles,” Nick says. “And I know you’re an ass man.” 

Harry laughs. “Am not.” 

“Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t caught yourself checking out the Tommo’s ass at least once.” Nick’s eyebrows raise up and up and up, into the middle of his forehead. It looks painful.

And Harry can’t do it. 

“Alright. I have looked,” Harry admits. “But I’m not ‘an ass man.’” He does not deny that Louis is his type. That would be dishonest, and Harry tries to avoid dishonesty. He doesn’t know Louis well enough to say either way. Although, “I’m not interested in celebrities.” 

He’s nauseous simply at the thought of cameras pointed _at him_. 

“Sure, you aren’t,” Nick agrees, eyebrows still high. “But you’ll come on Saturday, anyway. For a close-up look at that bum, eh?” 

“No,” Harry tells him, “I will not.” 

Nick laughs, but doesn’t press. “You know who else is playing? Zayn. You know about his _thing_ with Louis?” 

Harry does. “Catfight likely?” He asks, hopeful. 

It’d be fun to watch, from the comfort of his home, naked and alone, refreshing the inevitable Twitter trend, golf tournament on in the background. He thanks God he isn’t on Tommo’s team. What a mess. A good, press-heavy mess, but still a mess. 

“You bet your knot _something_ interesting will happen,” Nick says. “Tommo’s not known for letting himself be upstaged, which is absolutely what Zayn’s appearance will do.” 

“Good luck with all that,” Harry says. 

“Won’t need luck,” Nick says. “You’ll be there to help.” 

“I won’t,” Harry insists. Because he _really, really_ won’t. 

~

Except that it’s looking like he will. 

Two days later, Harry’s again trying to negotiate his way out of the press room for the Big Weekend and back into his flat for a long-anticipated day of golf-watching. He’s sat in a chair opposite his boss, thinking hard about how best to argue his case, eyes focused on the bronze nameplate on the desk between them. 

_Max M. Shady, C. E. O._

Max’s name is a little bit of a joke in the industry, considering he spends much of his time obfuscating the truth about his clients, the tawdry and the banal. Max only half-heartedly pretends to play along. 

He’s smooth, with a broad and easy smile that shows off perfectly straight white teeth, but he does not find any humor in his work.

He directs this smile, serious and pointed, at Harry now, as he waits for Harry to speak. 

Finally, Harry says, “I don’t see why you want me there. Nick’s been doing events like this without me for _years_ now. I thought you were thinking of assigning me to a new team for a bit. It doesn’t make sense for me to waste my energy or the company’s resources.” The urge to bite his nails is strong, but Max always calls him out on it when he does. Not worth the brief relief when he’s trying to be persuasive. 

“This isn’t about Nick. This is about the new team you’re being considered for,” Max says, folding his arms across his chest. 

“The press room is not a good place for me. Cameras give me anxiety. I might have a panic attack.” It’s not a lie, more of an exaggeration, an unlikely possibility. 

“One of our clients is considering a change in narrative around sexual orientation for his upcoming album promo and after what you’ve done for Nick and Sam, you’d obviously be an asset to his team, if that’s the route we choose to go. What Jake and I were thinking is that you’d go to observe him, without his knowledge of course, and let us know what you think, whether a change in tone and narrative might be a lucrative course to take.” 

The idea makes some sense, but the apprehension prickling at the base of Harry’s spine doesn’t disappear. He doesn’t take switching teams lightly. Warming up to a whole new group of people has never been a pleasant experience for him. “Who?” 

“Tomlinson. You know him? Face of British pop music? X factor prodigy? Two albums in three years and ready to release his third?” 

Harry sighs. He knows. Hard to avoid the kid these days. And his admittedly spectacular bum. “What kind of change? He’s a male Beta who dates female Betas, right? Is there more to his story?” 

Max steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “We’re not sure what change exactly. That’s one of the reasons you’re being called in for a consult. He’s willing to do any number things- propose a bond to a female model, date a man, be seen romantically with an Alpha or an Omega. Or perhaps something simpler, soften his style and his usual company. He and the label agree that the new album and its promo should reveal a different side of him, something more honest, vulnerable.”

Harry blinks and turns this over in his mind. It still doesn’t quite make sense. “He wants something more honest. But he’s willing to do _anything_ …” 

“No, Harry,” Max says, tone sharpening to shrill, like that of a frustrated primary school teacher. “We want something that _looks_ more honest.” 

Harry winces. He hates the part of his job where he helps people lie.

“Couldn’t I just watch a few youtube videos and then come in for brief consult with his team? Do I have to go to a press event _and_ switch teams?”

“Go to the press event. If you think he’s not a good candidate for a more risky narrative, you’re off the hook…” He lets the sentence hang and Harry knows that Max is confident Harry’ll discover something interesting enough to tempt him onto the project, some potential narrative shift that will make them all a whole lot richer. Harry can see the dollar signs in his eyes. 

#

“Tommo.” 

Louis drops his phone onto his lap and glances up into his mirror. Nick Grimshaw lounges in the doorway of his dressing room, arms crossed. His quiff already perfectly styled, unlike Louis’ own which is currently being bullied into submission by his hairstylist. 

“Grimmy!” Louis calls back, allowing a grin to grow wide across his face. “So fucking relieved when I heard you’d be doing my long interview. Last time, when was it? The Brits, I think? Anyway, Sam did me, and she kept asking me these absolutely shit questions, ‘What’s your favorite gemstone?’ ‘What’s your curry takeaway order?’ ‘What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?’ Like, total shit. Every question. And, of course, I came off as boring _and_ a dickhead. You’ll make me look good, won’t you?” 

Grimmy shakes his head. “Damn, that’s my list. What should I ask instead?” 

“I don’t know. Something interesting. You know what she asked Zayn right after lobbing all that boring shit at me? ‘What two animals would you like to see in a fight?’ and ‘What was the first comic book you remember reading?’ What the fuck. Like, faced with his chiseled jawline and humongous Omega eyes, she could suddenly think of more interesting questions. Fucking hell.” 

“Zayn’s not an O,” Grimmy says. He sounds very certain. But, of course, he can’t be. No one can, these days. 

“You don’t know for sure,” Louis says. “Everyone hides shit. Everyone lies.” 

“I’ve smelled him. He’s an Alpha. Trust me,” Grimmy presses. “ _Trust me_.” 

Louis shakes his head, careful to keep his grin firmly in place. He doesn’t want to kill Grimshaw’s wet dreams, but, “They have very convincing sprays, you know.” 

“Speaking of sweet-smelling A’s…” Grimmy claps his hands together and begins to walk toward him. 

“Were we?” 

The timer goes off on Louis’ phone. He should be done with hair _and_ makeup by now. Fucking city traffic held him up for fucking ever on the way in this morning. 

“My friend Harry Styles would say that whole thing about Omegas having larger than average eyes is a myth and not statistically accurate.” 

Grimmy’s voice lilts over Styles’ name, more affectionate than Louis’ heard him. He wonders if they’re an item. Louis knows who Styles is, of course. Lots of people do. Or rather, lots of people know who his _father_ is, especially people outside the norm in their presentation. 

Louis’d read his book as a young teen and chucked it immediately, googling around for something more relatable. Purchased by untraceable credit card and buried in the back of his closet, Louis has a whole shelf filled with the literature that’s been written in response. 

“They’re talking about transferring him to my team, I think.” And then, before he can stop himself, Louis adds, “He really smells sweet? I thought Alphas were supposed to have darker, deeper tones to their scent?” He tries to phrase it like a question, like he doesn’t know whether or not it’s true, like he can’t smell the rich, coffee undertone of Grimmy’s scent wafting toward him even as he speaks. 

Grimmy shrugs and, tone still warm, answers, “He has dimples. And curls. His scent could hold a hint of dog shit and people would still call him sweet. Anyway, he’s going to be here today, in the press room with us. You should talk to him.” 

Louis doesn’t want to talk to Styles. Louis doesn’t want Styles there at all, doesn’t want him on his team. He has even considered trying to switch to another PR firm without the know-it-all A on staff. He’s said as much to Max and Jake, but they have other ideas. 

Louis generally doesn’t like to spend too much time around A’s, and Styles’ father’s book is probably the biggest load of bullshit he’s ever read. Further, Louis also doesn’t like to be analyzed. Observed and coddled, yes. Examined like a piece of scientific data chock full of interesting secrets, no. Harry Styles has a reputation for treating clients like the latter. 

“You’ll like him, Tommo,” Grimmy says. Then he lowers his voice, to add, “I think he can help you. He’s really good crafting coming out strategies. Truly gifted. He’s able to understand and predict the public’s reactions to celebrity sexuality better than anyone in the business.” 

Louis winces. “I don’t have anything to ‘come out’ as at the mo’. Just a regular, normal dude,” he grins wanly at his stylist who shakes her head. She’s no fun. She never plays along. 

“Just a regular, normal dude who likes a dick up the ass,” Grimmy returns. 

Louis glares at him. “No, that’s not-” Then he stops himself. He wants to say that he doesn’t do _that_ , no ass-play for him, but he knows how shitty that’ll sound to Grimmy, a gay Ala and one of the few Alphas Louis can actually stand. He settles on saying instead, “Nothing is decided about how we’ll go forward with my image change or whether we’ll go forward at all, actually.” 

Grimmy shrugs. “All I’m saying is that you should talk to Harry. He’s really, _really_ good at figuring this shit out.” 

That’s exactly what Louis is afraid of. 

~

“That was so fun,” Grimmy leans into him, an easy smile blooming on his lips. Louis believes him, too, had seen him dancing in the wings while he was performing. “Love that new song. ‘Story of My Life.’ Tell us, Tommo, what’s it about?” 

Louis has no fucking idea what the song is about. He’d come up with the theme, sent it off to his writing team, and they’d come back with lyrics that made no sense. However, Louis _prepares_ for his interviews and has an answer for inevitable questions such as this. 

“It’s about me. The last two albums have been about girls and partying and living the good life, you know? But I’ve done a lot more of the writing for this new one and so it’s a lot more _me_. And, like, more _mature._ ”

“Mature,” Grimmy repeats with a smirk. 

Oh, for God’s sake. Louis knows he’s fucking young, alright? He’s tired of interviewers (producers, management, his own _mother_ ) assuming that means he can’t be mature, professional. He can. _He is_. “Yeah, I was just a kid when I got onto the X Factor. I could never have imagined this kind of success. I’m just now starting to get the hang of performing in front of big crowds and making my own music.”

“Do you like it? Coming up with your own stuff?” Louis almost misses the question because as Grimmy asks it, someone enters the room and Louis’ nose twitches at the scent of him. An Alpha. Harry Styles. Styles’ entrance isn’t loud. In fact, Louis doesn’t think anyone else sees him slip into the corner and fold his big body into the small plastic chair. 

Louis shifts in his seat and blinks back at Grimmy, trying to ignore his instinct to sniff the air, to figure out exactly what Styles smells like. Louis’d thought he’d beat that habit years ago, within months of puberty. Couldn’t be letting on that he’s scenter. Still can’t. 

He has to focus. He takes a shallow breath in through his mouth and pulls out one of his favorite memories. “I think I’ve told this story before so forgive me. But when I first finished with the X Factor, my mum- we’re really close, like best friends- well, she pulled me aside and said, ‘You’re a creative, talented boy. Remember that and don’t let them turn you into something or someone you’re not. You write your own story, your own song.’ So that’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I don’t want to lose track of who I am or where I come from and I don’t want to let anyone else forget it either.” 

Louis tugs at the hem of his plain white tee-shirt. This is an easy role for him. The Regular Lad With A Regular Family Unused To Fame had been part of both of his last albums’ promo. It’s comfortable now. 

“Writing though, eh? Is that the next big thing for you, then? Creating your own sound?” Grimmy asks. 

“Yeah me and Liam Payne- really great writer, you should all google him. Better yet, let’s get him trending! He’d love that.” Louis looks away from Grimmy and into the camera. “Do it, guys, for me.” 

His fans will, too, God love them. Liam will be pleased with the promo. He’s set to release his own album sometime soon. 

Louis turns back to Grimmy. “Anyway, Liam’s been working with me on most of the album. It’s got a more honest vibe, I think. I talk about some of my personal struggles a bit.” 

Grimmy leans in even closer. “What personal struggles?” 

Louis leans away and wags his finger. “You’ll have to listen to the album when it comes out.” 

“Speaking of,” Grimmy’s face is transforming into a smirk again. “You’re scheduled to release in the fall, right?” 

Louis nods. Mid October, to be exact. 

“That’s the same time as your rival, Zayn. Did you know that?” 

Of course, Louis fucking knows that. Their teams think it’ll be mutually beneficial. But fuck. Louis isn’t looking forward to fielding questions like this one for the next few months. 

However, unlike his ‘artistic’ counterpart, Louis is a professional. He smiles, allowing a small measure of the bitterness he feels creep in, for show. “I hadn’t heard that, no. Great songwriter, himself, that Zayn.” 

“That he is. I have one last question for you. And it’s a good one.” The glint in his eye suggests otherwise. 

“My pants are green and blue, stripey. Cotton. Breathable,” Louis tells him, wiggling his eyebrows, hoping that’ll be enough to derail the end of the interview. 

Just then, Louis catches another whiff of Styles. Sort of nutty, maybe. And again, he has to stop himself from breathing in deeply, chasing the smell. Now is not the time. 

Fuck, _never_ is the time. 

“Been looking to buy some new ones myself,” Grimmy says. “You’ll have to tell me more about that later.” He winks. “But first, is there a special lady in your life right now? Last I’d heard you’d gone through a break-up with Eleanor, the fan from Manchester.” 

God, the line sounds straight off of one of Max’s press releases. 

“No one now, but I’m looking,” he says. He can practically hear the screams of fans on the other side of their computer screens. _Ahhhhh!!! Maybe it’ll be me!_

It’s getting old, courting fans this way. He hopes his team will consider the bonding arc, give him some peace. 

_~_

As soon as the interview is finished, Grimmy lowers his mic and scans the room. “Harry was supposed to sit in on this. Where is that bastard? Did he manage to worm his way out of showing up after all?” 

Louis watches Grimmy’s gaze bounce right over and past Styles, who appears to be deeply engaged with his iPhone. 

“He’s right there.” Louis nods toward him and at that moment, Styles looks up at them, expression serious. He’s really beautiful, almost feminine even, with glossy brown waves reaching the tops of his shoulders and huge green eyes shimmering as they gaze straight back at Louis. 

His jaw has an edge to it, though, and bears a hint of stubble and his neck, while long and pale, sports an impressive Adam’s apple. Louis can smell him, too, a scent so unique that despite his prettiness, Louis is certain that Styles is an Alpha. 

Grimmy beckons him over, but before Styles is fully to his feet, a frazzled looking aide is at his side. “Nick, you’re over to Zayn now,” she hisses. 

“Goody,” Grimmy laughs, lifting his eyebrows at Louis, who shakes his head and smiles in response. Despite the pinprick of annoyance he feels at the mere mention of Zayn’s name, Louis won’t be goaded. 

The aide inclines her head toward the door and Nick waves to Louis before the leading the way out of the room. 

Styles has sat back down, but he’s still watching Louis from across the room. His expression is still unsmiling, intense, and that irksLouis. He has another couple of interviews to do and then a late afternoon luncheon scheduled with friends. He’s sure his own aide is eager to drag him off as well. And yet, he wanders across the room, casual-like, as though all he has is time and curiosity. 

When Louis reaches him, Styles stands again and sticks out his hand. It’s not proper for Alphas to offer their hands first, Louis knows. It can be interpreted as a sign of aggression. 

The smile that’s suddenly lighting up Styles’ face isn’t aggressive, though. 

And neither is coconut. Which, Louis realizes, is what he smells like. 

Louis takes his hand. “I’m Louis,” he says, squeezing firmly. “And you are?” 

Styles tilts his head and furrows his brow. “I already know who you are and you already know who I am. Introductions are a bit weird. But we can go through the motions, if you like.” 

“Right you are, Harry Styles,” Louis barrels along. The bottoms of his feet already itch with the awkwardness of the encounter. He should walk away, get on with his day. He never should have followed Grimmy’s advice to try and speak with Styles in the first place. Alphas are the worst. 

Styles continues to stare at him. He doesn’t say a word and his smile has disappeared again. 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Louis lies, his mind alarmingly blank but for _Alpha_ and _coconut_. His eyes catch on Harry’s arms which are large and covered in tattoos, so he adds, “Always good to have some brawn in the room.” 

Louis flexes his own pitiful biceps and waggles his eyebrows. 

Then, he thinks, _what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you saying?_

More impolite than an Alpha initiating a handshake is drawing attention to a stranger’s presentation. Which, he hasn’t explicitly done so, but his comment could be easily taken as drawing attention to the fact that Styles is an Alpha. Louis’ mind seems to be playing that fact over and over on loop, so he certainly meant it as such. 

Styles’ expression doesn’t change, his gaze sticking to the bare skin on the inside of Louis’ arm. It’s heavy enough that Louis can _feel_ it and he suppresses a shiver. 

“‘I’m not really brawny. I’m not really laddish at all,” Styles murmurs, words soft, maybe even a little sheepish. He’s still hasn’t lifted his eyes back to Louis’ face. 

Fuck, this is not going well. Louis hadn’t meant to _shame_ the man. He’s usually ace at making people feel comfortable. Like, really, why had he mentioned muscles in the first place? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

But, completely out character, Louis keeps on rolling down the same treacherous track, unable to locate his break. “You must like some sport. You’re a big guy. You must play something. Rugby, maybe? Tennis?” 

Fuck. So, yeah, Louis had really worked hard to embody The Bro Persona over the last year, and now he can’t seem to shake it, can’t find another piece of himself to put on display. Instead, he can only deepen the chasm of awkwardness that’s now gaping open between them. They’ll both fall in any moment now. 

Styles isn’t helping either, with his bright eyes and heady scent and short, low answers. 

It’s settled, then. Louis is not inviting this man onto his team. He’ll have to tell Jake that’d be a deal-breaker for him. 

One corner of Styles’ mouth lifts. “Golf.” 

“Golf’s not a sport,” Louis replies with a snort. Good. This is a good topic for him. He’s got a whole spiel for this. “You can’t just call any activity a ‘sport.’ It has to involve real physical fitness, for one. You can have a giant beer belly and still be an excellent golfer. Not a sport.” 

“It is so a sport,” Styles replies with a shake of his head. Louis watches his curls bounce against his cheek. “The Oxford Dictionary defines sport as ‘an activity involving physical exertion and skill in which an individual or team competes against another or others for entertainment.’ Golf involves physical exertion _and_ skill.” 

“How do you know that definition off the top of your head?” Louis asks. On top of being an Alpha, Styles is a certified Weirdo. 

Styles shrugs. “I know a lot of things about golf. For example, did you know that it’s actually one of the oldest sports? Not as old as, say, athletics, but older than rugby and football. The first recorded golf match happened in the Middle Ages in the Netherlands, although modern golf is more of a Scottish invention. I’ve played the oldest course in the world myself, once. Several pros are scheduled to play a charity round there in a couple of months, including Niall Horan. Do you know him? Best golfer in the world right now, statistically. I’d love to go, maybe even do the meet and greet, but that’d probably cost about my monthly salary…” 

Styles’ speech, which had been gradually slowing, stops completely and he examines Louis for a moment before asking. “Do you play?” 

“Fuck, no.” Louis does not play golf. He’d been invited once, with some suits from the label, and was so embarrassed that he’d had Emma call him off to ‘a radio interview’ between the third and fourth hole. 

Styles bites his lip, cheeks pink. He’s as mortified by this encountered as Louis. Louis takes a breath and tries to salvage the situation. 

“You do know a lot of things about golf. A lot of things…” Louis shakes his head, searching for his charisma. “I still say that it doesn’t actually require ‘physical exertion.” 

Styles’ brows draw together. “The top golfers in the world are all excellent athletes. Niall Horan can-” 

“Not _all_ of them.” Louis is certain he’s seen a clip of a pro-golfer with a gut. Recently. 

“Trust me, Louis,” Styles presses. “I know a lot of things. And not just about golf.” 

This is a perfect moment to end the conversation. Louis can agree with the knothead, make his excuses, and walk away. “Oh you know a lot of things, eh? What do you know about me, then, smart guy?” 

_Where the fuck is this shit coming from?_ Louis honestly does not know. He’s distracted, he decides, by the strange combination of Styles’ sweet scent, slow speech, and seemingly guileless confidence. 

Styles wrinkles his nose. He lifts a hand to his face and taps his temple. He tilts his head. He furrows his brow. Louis is not a patient person- he’ll readily admit it- and so he waits for irritation to kick in, for the itch in his feet to become unbearable, but instead he finds himself breathing in more deeply, reveling in sweet, nutty scent that’s begun to surround him. 

He can’t find the words to say to smooth things over between him and Styles, but he’s not inclined to walk away, either. 

“Something about you,” Styles says finally. “I make you uncomfortable.” 

Louis explodes, “You’d make a fucking corpse uncomfortable with that creepy fucking stare. Fucking hell. That’s not a thing to know about me.” 

“Yes, but you’re comfortable with almost anyone and most people find me boring and harmless. But _I_ make _you_ uncomfortable,” Styles insists. “Why?” 

Louis flinches. Then, to his utter surprise, he hears himself say, “Your dad’s book is shit.” 

Styles’ eyes widen, but then he smiles. He has dimples. 

“Quite revolutionary for its time, but also total rubbish. Agreed,” Styles says, nodding. “Truly an ethical travesty, the kinds of ideas and behavior it’s been used to justify. Simmonds’ response is much better.” 

“Yeah,” Louis replies, trying to find a way out of the conversation. This is not a turn he should have allowed it to take. 

“I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have read it.” Styles is tapping at his temple again. A thinking motion that he doesn’t seem to be aware of. Weird, yes, but also endearing. Which, wait. No. 

“Maybe you don’t know as much as you say you know. About me. About other things. About _golf_.” 

“Tommo!” Someone’s calling to him from the doorway. A young someone that he doesn’t recognize, maybe a new intern or a staffer working the event. “Tommo! They’re waiting for you in room 7b!” 

Louis looks back to Styles who’s still watching him closely and shaking his head in silent laughter. Alphas are so _fucking_ patronizing. 

“I have to go…” Louis tells him, voice trailing off. God, he sounds _reluctant_. Which he is not. At all. Except maybe a little, only because he’s yet to set Styles straight about the atrocity of ‘golf’ being considered ‘sport.’ 

“We were just getting the discussion teed up, but, sure, go ahead, walk away. I bet your putt will look great in those jeans,” Styles replies, lips twitching. 

Louis laughs aloud. His body shakes with it. Is Styles _flirting_ with him? _Using golf puns_? “Oh my god. You’re quirky. Really, _really_ quirky, aren’t you?” 

Styles’ face scrunches up, pained. “That was inappropriate. I should not have said that. I’m sorry.” He lifts a thumb to his lips, biting at the nail.

“You shouldn’t’ve,” Louis agrees. This is the strangest encounter he’s ever had with anyone. And with an Alpha, a _Styles_ , no less. “I’ve got to…” 

“Go,” Styles finishes for him, moving his hand away from his face in an awkward little wave. “Bye.” 

“Later,” Louis tells him and then shakes his head because he doesn’t intend to see Styles ‘later.’ He doesn’t intend to see Styles ever again, if he can help it. 

As Louis walks away, he finds himself wondering if Styles is watching his putt- er, his bum. And whether or not it _does_ look good. He hopes so. He _assumes_ so. _Ass-umes_. 

God damn it. He _definitely_ needs to tell Jake and Max that he cannot have Harry Styles on his team. No way in hell is that going to work. 

~

Louis doesn’t plan to watch Zayn’s interview with Grimmy or his performance or any thing to do with Zayn and The Big Weekend at all. Louis doesn’t really have anything against the guy and has even been known to throw a song or two of his onto a party playlist. 

He’s just really fucking tired of their ‘rivalry.’ He understands the need to keep it up, has seen the numbers regarding public interest and sales, but every time he thinks about badmouthing the guy on Twitter or trash talking him in an interview, his limbs grow heavy and his mind goes blank. When the label had rolled out the plan for the dual release, he’d asked his PR team lead, Emma, to handle all the Zayn-related shit on social media and through press releases. He’s not sure he can keep up the facade. 

So he doesn’t plan to watch Grimmy’s interview with Zayn, but _his mum_ sends it to him in an email with the subject line ‘ _fuck Alphas’._

The video she’s linked is only forty seconds long and begins with a statement from Grimmy, “That’s an odd coincidence. Louis Tomlinson was just telling me the same thing. He’s increased his creative input on his upcoming album as well.” 

Zayn winces, a small but discernible scrunch of his nose. Louis suspects he’s as tired as Louis of their little PR war. But then Zayn tilts his head and says, “I’m sure he has, to some degree. But it’s different with _pop_ music, isn’t it? It’s all about the show, nothing really _real.”_

Louis rolls his eyes. What a unique critique. Really revolutionary, that Zayn. 

“Unlike your music, which is truly an honest self-revelation.” Louis can’t tell whether or not Grimmy’s loaded the comment with sarcasm or not. He suspects not. The guy’s an Ala, after all. 

(‘Fucking Alphas’, or rather Alphas fucking, indeed. Is that what his mum had meant?) 

“Yeah,” Zayn nods. His voice is soft when he speaks and his gaze thoughtful. “I think mine has an extra layer, too, you know, as a scenter. Like, being an Alpha shapes my experience of the world in a way that Betas may appreciate, yeah, but they’ll never understand, you know?” 

Louis closes out of the window. How _fucking_ dare Zayn act like he’s special, like he’s fucking _misunderstood_ , as an Alpha. For fuck’s sake,Alphas fucking _run the world_. They’re over-represented in government, on television and in movies, in Academics, in the fucking Forbes 500. 

He opens his Twitter. **@Louis_Tomlinson: fucking hate knotheads. a’s need to learn when to shut the fuck up.**

Emma texts him immediately. _That’s fine. Good, even. Gonna edit it and publish. Label and Management have been on me for you to respond to that interview._

A moment later, her edited version of the tweet appears at the top of his timeline. **@Louis_Tomlinson: fucking hate whiny knotheads . need to learn to shut the fuck up.**

Thank God for Emma and the fact that she’s meant to approve all his tweets before they go live. Sometimes Louis’ temper runs away from him. He knows it’d be a fucking PR disaster to trash talk A’s, even if they make his skin crawl. Which they do. All the fucking time. 

#

Harry curls up on his couch, sinking into the leather and reaching out with the remote to turn on the DVR-ed golf match he’d missed earlier. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and digs out his phone. 

_Niall Horan will have done an interview or two this afternoon; they’ll be online by now,_ he tells himself even as he types _Louis Tomlinson_ into the search bar on his tumblr app, waiting for what will inevitably be a barrage of shitposts to load. 

Nick was right, of course. Louis is _exactly_ Harry’s type. A mouthy, blue-eyed Beta with an amazing ass. Harry’d suspected as much, if he’s honest. But he’d known enough not to be baited. Even if he were interested in dating a _celebrity_ _with whom he works_ \- which he is not- Harry is not Louis’ type. Louis Tomlinson has, on occasion, been known to make disparaging comments about non-Betas and about Alphas in particular. Romantically, he’s usually photographed with big-eyed, apple-cheeked brunettes. Always girls. Always Betas. Always one-time fans. 

Of course, Harry now knows from his conversation with Max that this ‘type’ probably has little to do with the real Louis Tomlinson’s ‘type.’ This is Louis Tomlinson™’s type. The real Louis Tomlinson is willing to be seen ‘dating’ _anyone_ to get ahead. 

The blue tumblr backdrop is flooded with images of Louis from his performance earlier in the day and his interview with Nick. Lots from the interview. 

The top trending post is titled “TOMLINSHAW RISE” followed by a gif of Louis and Nick laughing together. The OP has tagged it, ‘#LOUIS IS TUCKING HIS CHIN!!! #MY COY OMEGA BABY!!!#LOUIS TOMLINSON#TOMLINSHAW’ 

Harry studies the gif. It’s captured a moment right after Louis’d shared the color of his pants and he does, admittedly, look a little coy. But Harry knows, because he was there in the room, that Louis’ gaze had not been on Nick but on someone beyond Nick. Louis’ gaze, at that particular moment, had been on Harry. 

Harry also knows that ‘chin tucking’ is classic pre-mating behavior for Omegas. They usually do it subconsciously, the instinctive motion reminding interested Alphas that they have something to hide, that said interested Alphas will have to do a little more work if they want a real peek, a real scent, a real _bite_. 

The motion the fans are labeling this way lasts barely a second and Harry honestly hadn’t even noticed it himself at the time. He decides it’s probably a trick of the light or camera angle. But he can’t be sure because his own gaze had been on Louis’ waist, trying to catch a glimpse of the line of his ‘stripey’ pants. Were they boxers or briefs or boxer briefs? Harry still doesn’t know. 

Actually, after watching Louis strut away, his ‘putt’ on display, Harry’s pretty sure he hadn’t been wearing any pants at all, that his quip had been a diversion tactic. Louis hadn’t wanted Nick to ask him that last question about his romantic life, Harry suspects. 

Harry clicks open the OPs blog anyway. Three thousand notes on a post made the very same day suggests a rather broad fandom reach and a heavy degree of influence. The OP is clearly not the only one who likes to imagine Nick and Louis together romantically. 

Though, actually, Harry realizes as he scrolls, ‘Tomlinshaw’ is _not_ their primary thing. 

‘Omega Louis’ is their primary thing, as he probably should have guessed by their handle ‘fuckyeahomegalouis.’

Their banner is three different images of Louis’ ankle tattoo, a thin black outline of a triangle. The first is above a checkered Vans sneaker, the second above a shiny brown dress shoe, and the third above a bare foot, flat on the sand. 

It’s a tiny tattoo, probably hidden most of the time. However, the triangle _has_ been a symbol of pride for the Omega community over the years, so Harry can see why it might raise a few eyebrows. 

He digs a bit deeper into the blog, curious what other bits and pieces of nonsense they’re using as evidence for their case. 

Turns out, they have quite a bit. None of Louis’ public romantic relationships look the least bit convincing, unsurprisingly, and rumors of gay club hookups abound. 

Additionally and most diligently catalogued, once or twice over the course of every event and outing, Louis will ‘relax’ enough to let slip a stereotypically O mannerism. Today had been a particularly ‘ _relaxed’_ showing and bloggers like fyol are hopeful it means something _bigger_ is on the horizon, like a coming out. 

Harry sighs. He feels for them; he really does. O role models, especially _male_ O role models are few and far between in the current socio-political climate. 

However, there’s not a snowball’s chance in _hell_ that Simon Cowell would let an Omega past the entry stages of the X Factor auditions. Harry’s seen the audition paperwork for some of Shady Lane’s clients. On the very first page all applicants are required to disclose their gender, presentation, and sexual orientation, with a note that those caught lying will be cut and liable for losses. 

He’s tempted to drop an anon saying as much into the blogger’s ask box, help them let go of the dream. But then, he figures, what’s the harm? Let them play pretend. It’s not hurting Louis. At least, he doesn’t think it is. In fact, if Louis is interested in changing his image, particularly in _softening_ it, this community will probably be incredibly supportive. Helpful, even. It would not be in anyone’s interest for them to disappear. 

Harry clicks ‘follow’ on a few of these blogs (including fuckyeahomegalouis and louisishotforalphaass) reasoning that he’s likely to be added to Louis’ team in the next week or two. He has a professional interest in fan commentary on this type of thing. Fan conversation about gender and presentation is his _professional_ specialty. 

He ignores the niggling thought that this is his personal tumblr which he uses to connect with other avid Niall Horan fans. He’s never used it for professional purposes in the past. Sure, he tries to keep his professional life and personal life separate, separate phones, separate computers, separate email accounts. 

But this is convenient, he tells himself, and it’s not as if anyone from work will be contacting _him_ this way. 

He refreshes his dash. 

Eight of the first ten posts are still from Niall blogs. A perfectly legitimate ratio. 

He scrolls through a few pages. At first, he thinks Niall must’ve had a poor showing. He sees a clip of Niall stammering out a nonsensical response to an interviewer’s pointed question about the drizzle’s effect on his performance. After which, he watches gif after gif of Niall slipping on the green and almost knocking off his mark. 

Then, he sees that Niall’d won the match by three strokes. He grins. This is why Harry loves the man. He’s always accidentally and guilelessly winning at life. 

Harry refreshes his dash again. 

A tweet from @Louis_Tomlinson is at the top of it. The hair pricks up on the back of Harry’s neck. He knows Louis is low-key notorious for his dislike of A’s, but he hadn’t expected to be confronted by it so soon after their encounter. 

He chews at his nail as he scrolls. The tweet can’t possibly be about _him_. 

It’s not, he soon realizes. It’s about Zayn, of course. 

Curious, Harry pulls up Zayn’s interview and watches the whole of it. He’s not sure Louis’ vitriol is justified. Zayn hadn’t been trying to say Alphas were persecuted, just _different_ from Betas, which is objectively true. Harry _also_ doesn’t appreciate the implication that being an Alpha somehow makes whining inappropriate. Seems a little bit misogynistic.

He continues to scroll through his dash, telling himself that he’s mostly curious about fan reaction. What will Louis’ fans- Team Tommo, as they’re called- think of this kind of almost Alpha hate? 

_fuckyeahomegalouis_ reblogs an short essay within minutes by tumblr user _oldtiredolo_ about how, yes, Alphas are not Betas. They _are_ different from the majority of the population. However, they are not _oppressed_ , in any way, at all, ever. Like their handle suggests, _oldtiredolo_ has endured a lifetime of #TheAlphaPerspective on being a scenter and they are exhausted by it, especially by Alphas’ dramatics about its difficulties. They finish the post saying, _No one would allow that kind of comment to be made by a billionaire, even though, yes, their lives are empirically different than the majority of the population. So why do we let Alphas get away with it?_ The post is tagged: #yet another reason why #i love louis #and am 1000% sure that his ass is as wet as mine 

Harry switches over to Twitter. He’s less comfortable using his personal account here- follows are more public- so he has to click through tags and mentions. The conversation he finds is quite different. Louis’ fans are equally happy here, but the conversation revolves around the rivalry. A lot of fans are outraged that Zayn would dare to call Louis ‘fake’ when he is the most ‘real’ and ‘relatable’ guy in music.

Harry finds himself wondering who composed the tweet. Was it Louis? Or his team? What were they _trying_ to accomplish? 

And, more intriguing, might the tumblr users be right? Could Louis’ dislike of Alphas be tied the fact that he might be an Omega? 

Harry figures he’ll find out soon enough. 

~ 

A few days later, no word yet about team switch, it starts to really bother Harry. A few evenings spent on tumblr reveal that Louis has never explicitly stated his presentation or his sexual orientation, not on camera anyway. 

What if he _is_ an Omega? It’s not so hard to believe. Harry knows better than anyone that presentation doesn’t come with an inherent set of behaviors and physical characteristics, not the way most people think it does anyway. Most of the biological realities of being O can be easily hidden from public view. Pheromone neutralizing sprays aren’t expensive and lots of unbonded Omegas use suppressants to prevent heats. 

From Harry’s research- Saturday mornings spent with a pot of tea and the latest data and analysis from the Longitudinal Study of Alpha/Omega Offspring sent straight to Harry’s inbox from The Professor himself- he knows there’s not much else, aside from scent and heat, that would give an O away beyond a doubt. 

So Louis _might_ be an Omega. He might be gay or bisexual. He might even be an Olo. He’s probably not; he’s probably a Beta male into Beta females.

But still. 

Harry’s got tumblr open (again) to an analysis in which the OP claims that they can, without a doubt, say that Louis is not a Beta. Harry’s met the guy and he wouldn’t necessarily agree, not ‘beyond a doubt.’ 

He texts Nick. _A lot of people on the internet think Louis isn’t a Beta._

Nick responds right away. _Like you?_ And then, _Someone’s got a crush_. 

Harry replies with the poop emoji. Nick knows something and he’s not sharing. 

A few minutes later Nick texts him again. _You heard, eh?_

Harry hasn’t heard anything. He googles Nick’s name. Nothing more recent than bits and pieces of celebrity interviews he’d done for the Big Weekend. He Googles Louis’ name and finds a similar slew of articles about the last weekend, topped with one piece from Sugarscape about how much he loves curry and speculation that his favorite curry shop is near the tiny flat in which he spent most of his childhood. 

He texts Nick back reluctantly, _Heard what?_

Nick rings though and Harry answers immediately. “Why can’t you just text me like a normal person?” 

“I enjoy the sound of your voice. So deep. So morbid.” 

“What haven’t I heard?” He asks. 

“About the outing next weekend. I assumed that was why you texted me about Louis.” When Harry doesn’t answer right away- he’s putting the conversation on speaker and running through his email, desperate to figure out what the fuck Nick’s talking about- Nick adds, “Unless. I was right about the crush, wasn’t I? He’s so _fucking_ your type, like down to the length of his eyelashes, isn’t he?” 

When Harry’s email finally loads, it’s right there at the top, a calendar event for him to add. “Saturday 2pm Lunch Outing, Louis Tomlinson and Nick Grimshaw. Point: Harry Styles” 

“Why in the _world…_?” Harry trails off. He’s never been point on an outing before, not for Nick, not for _any_ client. 

“Apparently-” -Nick leans on the word- “-we generated quite the buzz. Everyone thought we had a lot of chemistry.” Nick sounds elated. Which, Nick loves having _chemistry_ with celebrities, but- 

“He’s not an Alpha,” Harry tells Nick, voice brittle. “And you whine a lot.” 

“You just said yourself. Who knows what he is, really? His PR lead, Emma, wrote that tweet about the whining. I have it on good authority.” He pauses. “Emma told me.” 

Harry sighs. Louis Tomlinson is not an Alpha. That much Harry’s all but certain of. However, it’s no use arguing the point with Nick. The other bit, though, is interesting. “Why were you even talking to her?”

“Wanted to check that the tweet wasn’t about me. I thought he liked me. Wanted to make sure.” 

Harry laughs. “Of course you did.” 

~

Harry discovers something else. The more videos of Louis he watches, the more gifsets he stares at, the more he likes the guy. 

Louis is genuinely entertaining. Sure, he recycles some of his stories, but Harry hasn’t met an entertainer who doesn’t. And Louis’ are at least interesting stories, chosen carefully, Harry thinks, the perfect anecdote for each different interviewer and audience. 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever worked with a client so intentional about crafting his image as Louis appears to be. His persona could seem fake- Harry’s met his fair share of full-of-shit-celebs- but that’s not Louis. 

From what Harry’s seen in the countless fan videos and interviews and instagram clips from concerts, Harry thinks that Louis’ saving grace is this: he’s genuinely attentive to whoever he’s with, always going out of his way to make them feel comfortable, to make them smile. 

He’s familiar with fans who are familiar with him, and formal with their parents. He’s sweet with kids, squatting to their level, pulling funny faces and modulating his voice to grab a laugh out of them. His tone becomes clear and businesslike in his professional interviews, but then he’s easy and playful, always ready to laugh, even at himself, on the late night shows. 

Harry would give his kidney to be able to read people like Louis does, to be able to always come up with the right words for the right situation. It’s a gift and, despite their first awkward interaction, Harry finds himself eager to begin work with him. 

He has a feeling Louis can pull off a more effective image change, maybe even a more spectacular coming out, than any client he’s worked with yet. They’re going to blow previous sales records out of the water in October; Harry can already feel it. 

Because Louis is an excellent musician, too. On stage, hand on his stomach, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, that’s the only time Harry has the feeling that Louis isn’t totally in control of everyone around him, the only time he seems to let his guard down and _be_. 

It’s also the time Harry feels most drawn in. Louis’ raspy tone and the way his face opens up completely, brow furrowing with sadness or eyes widening with joy, has Harry totally captivated. 

Whatever else Louis Tomlinson might be, he’s bright, a star. 

#

Louis is examining himself in the mirror by the door, pushing his fringe out of his eyes and wondering if he should have used a bit more product when the alarm chimes. Grimmy’s through the gate then, no time for more styling. Louis just- he looks sort of naked. Unpolished. And not in a laddish kind of way. 

He swallows. Beside an Alpha, even an Ala like Nick, Louis will look small, vulnerable. He’d watched the interview from Saturday; even with his hair in a stiff quiff and wearing a baggy skate shirt and jeans, Louis had looked slight, a miniature of himself. Today’s pap pics are meant to emphasize this, he knows, and the thought makes his stomach flutter. Jake suggested the outing after seeing the fan response to Louis’ interview with Nick last Saturday. The internet had been aflutter with how sweet he’d looked, how ‘relaxed,’ how ‘fey,’ a nice contrast to his Twitter tirade. Jake’s convinced putting Louis beside an Alpha or two will soften his image. 

Even though Louis is not entirely comfortable with the new angle, he’s willing to work it. He wants this album to be the best he’s released, garner the most sales, pull in the most awards. And he wants to get there _without_ having to call in The Sexpert, Styles. 

So, for now, he’ll do whatever Jake and Max tell him and he’ll do it well, with a smile. 

The alarm chimes again, a different string of notes. The doorbell. Giving himself one last look-over, he takes a deep breath and plucks at the hem of his vest. He wishes the soft fabric weren’t quite so clingy. 

When he opens the door, he sees the very person he’d assumed this outing would help him to avoid. 

“Harry Styles,” he greets, forcing a grin and reaching out with his right hand for a shake. 

Styles’ brow furrows, but he takes Louis hand in his. His clasp is warm and firm and his hand is large, enveloping Louis’ small palm and stubby fingers almost completely. His scent drifts over the doorstep and into Louis’ foyer. Louis wonders if Alpha scents linger, if when he arrives home he’ll be hit in the face with smell of freshly shaven coconut. 

Fuck. This is not how Louis was expecting the afternoon to go. 

Styles lets go of his hand. 

“You’re the chaperone, then?” Louis keeps the smile pasted on his face. It’s only been seconds, he knows, but his cheeks already hurt more than they had during that Teen Vogue shoot he’d done two weeks ago for the burly Alpha photographer with the wandering hands. (Louis still doesn’t understand why touching his _ass_ was necessary for positioning purposes, but he learned a long time ago that arguing about shit like that adds time to an already tedious task.)

“I’m the PR point.” Styles lifts his thumb to his mouth and nips at it. He might be as uncomfortable as Louis with the arrangement. “I work with Nick a lot. Max thought…” He trails off. 

The car honks in the drive. Through the front windshield, Louis can see Nick leaning across the lap of the driver to lean on the wheel. Nick’s not so bad. 

He looks back to Styles who hasn’t turned around, who is still examining Louis like an interesting and possibly dangerous animal specimen. 

He’s got to make the best of it, he supposes, and he reaches forward to flick Styles’ shoulder with his thumb and forefinger. “You just wanted a fancy tea.” 

Styles’ eyes widen. “No, honestly, before Max sent me the email, I-.” 

Louis doesn’t wait for the rest of his answer, walking round him to the waiting vehicle. 

Styles’ long strides allow him to catch up easily. “I’d rather be in my own kitchen. I’ve got tons of work stored up. I’d planned on a quiet weekend in. I wouldn’t-“ 

Styles is still talking as they crawl into the car and Louis cuts him off. “I’m kidding. Obviously, this is work for you. Obviously, there are much better places to be and much better people to be with.” 

“That’s not what I meant. I like-“ 

Now, Nick cuts in, reaching out to pet the soft fabric of Louis’ vest. “Tommo! This a nice touch. Can’t say I’ve ever seen you in something so chic.” 

“Me either,” Styles agrees softly. 

Louis whirls to look at him, but he’s not watching Louis, for once. He’s buckling his seat belt. 

“Hello yourself, Grimmy. I’m trying a new look, you know. One that includes your ugly face.” Louis’ voice sounds too bright, too loud for the small car. Fuck. God. Why does _Styles_ have to be here? 

“About that,” Styles says. Louis does not look at him again. Instead, he keeps his gaze on Nick who’s still turned around in his seat to face them. “So, yeah. Max told me that you’re wanting something softer, more honest. And, seeing as they’re putting me on your team, I’m curious. What happened? What changed?” 

Louis pushes at his fringe. He looks down at his hands. The answer seems obvious to him. No else on his team had needed to ask. “New album. Gotta keep things interesting. Mature with my fan base, you know, the usual.” 

“The usual,” Styles repeats. 

“Give him a break, Haz,” Grimmy says, laughing. “This is isn’t a meeting; it’s an outing. It’s supposed to be _fun_.” 

“My job is to help with the look of the thing,” Styles insists, his voice taking on a bit of a whine. Emma’s edited version of Louis’ tweet _is_ true. Louis does hate whiny Alphas. He hates whiny _anybodies_. “I’m supposed to be facilitating the change. Advising. I need more of a handle on the situation. To, you know, be helpful, do my job.” 

“The look of the thing?” Louis shoots back and twists to waggles his eyebrows at Styles. “Are you saying I don’t look good enough?” 

His heart thuds in his chest. Fuck, flirting is not the way to smooth things over with this guy; Louis’ already discovered that. 

Still, a ‘til-now deeply buried urge has him continuing, “How would _you_ have me look? Less clothes? Shall I bare my neck a bit?” He tilts his head back, exposing his throat in a gesture he _knows_ is inappropriate except between sexual partners, no matter your presentation. 

Styles literally squirms in his seat, hissing out a breath. Coconut. That’s all Louis can think for a moment. Not all Alphas smell so ripe. Actually, Louis can’t remember being so heavily wrapped in an Alpha's scent. Not ever. 

Fuck. Styles can _not_ be added to his team. Louis doesn’t think he’d be able to do _his_ work with Style’s scent all around him, with Styles’ eyes hot on him. 

“Now, you give _him_ a break, Tommo,” Nick says. “He’s a deep thinker, that one, a real researcher. And he’s been trying to figure you out for the last week, watching every damn video of you up on YouTube.”

“What did you discover?” Louis asks, partly because he can’t stop himself and partly because he’s actually curious. He’s always curious about what a potential fan might discover should they watch his newest music video and then go searching for more. 

And maybe he wants to know what Styles has seen, or thinks he’s seen. 

Styles rubs his temple, brow furrowing. Louis can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even whether it’s good or bad. The butterflies are back, the ones he’d been feeling at the prospect of being photographed with an Alpha. He hates not knowing how people, his fans especially, will take it, this softer Louis. 

Styles is right. He’s supposed to be helping with the changeover, but his thoughtful stare is only making Louis more nervous.

“You’re very charming, a really fun performer to watch,” Styles says, finally, words dropping slowly like smooth, heavy stones clunking between them, tempting Louis to pick them up and turn them over. “I could watch you for a long time, just like sit and kind of like just admire what you’re like.” 

Louis opens his mouth and then closes it. 

“He says that to all the girls.” Louis jerks his gaze over to see Grimmy rolling his eyes and shaking his head in Styles’ direction. 

Louis looks back to Styles who’s opened his phone. He can’t have meant that. Nobody just talks like that. Not unless…

“You’re a fan!” Louis pokes Styles’ shoulder. He should have known. It doesn’t usually happen, not with people who’ve been in the PR game for a while. They’ve known enough celebrities personally not to be taken in by the glitz. But it’s literally the only thing that could explain his effusive praise. The only people who talk like that are either fans or people who want something from him. And what could Styles want from _him_ that someone else, someone more friendly, couldn’t give him? 

“I’m not a fan.” Styles doesn’t look up from his phone. “I don’t really like pop music.” 

Louis laughs. He’s totally at a loss. He doesn’t know if he’s _ever_ met anyone as fucking _confusing_ as the knothead sitting next to him. “You don’t like pop music. You’re a snob, then?” 

Styles shakes his head and finally looks up from his phone. “I like Electronica.” 

“Electronica?” 

“Shut up, Haz. Stop fucking with him and put your damn phone away. Christ.” Nick is a hypocrite. He’s got his own phone out, up by his face. “Gonna take a snap of you, Louis.” 

“I was checking on something,” Styles says, by way of non-explanation. Then he glances back down at his phone. “Oh, that’s a good one.” He holds it out for Louis. “Replay it. You look nice. Soft.” 

“Soft.” Louis blows out a breath and follows Styles’ instructions. He’s not sure if it’s the filter or the light or his unstyled hair, but Styles is right. He looks softer even than he had in the mirror earlier. 

He thinks it’s kind of nice, despite the fact that he’s _so unsure_ of how it’ll go over. 

“Really soft,” Styles repeats, voice mimicking the meaning of the words. “I like it.” 

“But will my adoring public like it?” Louis asks, toning his own voice a little louder, trying to hide his uncertainty. But that’s the real question and he can’t get it out of his head. 

“Well,” Styles says. “That’s what we’re about to find out.” Then he adds, “Some of them will, for sure.” 

Louis allows their gazes to meet. If Styles has been all over the internet searching Louis, then he knows, of course, about the crew on that dark corner of tumblr, the ones who’ve figured it out, who really know what Louis is and stan him even harder for it. 

“Those weirdos don’t count,” Louis says because he’s supposed to, because that’s what Max and Jake and the people from Simon’s label always say, because they _shouldn’t_ count. 

They don’t. Not numbers-wise, not sales-wise.

“Maybe they don’t,” Styles shrugs. “But maybe they do.” 

Louis smiles at him and he smiles back. 

~

Nick tells Louis about his dog discovering how to open the cupboard under the sink where he keeps the bin and then, leaning in and wiggling his eyebrows more than is absolutely necessary, he gossips about the possibility of an upcoming interview with Beyoncé. He immediately follows this with another story about his dog, this time about how she had made friends with a neighbor’s dog, a neighbor who irritates the hell out of Nick by playing his violin at all hours of the day and night. 

This is how most Alphas are in Louis’ experience, always ready to talk about themselves, so it’s no surprise he barely gets a word in edgewise. (Although his experience with Alphas, he admits, is mostly limited to the asshole suits from the label and management and the few knotheads his mum has brought home over the years.) 

What _is_ a surprise is how much Louis enjoys listening to Nick. He’s so lively, his face lighting up dramatically as he speaks, his hands flying every which way. 

“Your listeners are really missing out,” Louis tells him as he sips his tea. The flavor settles in his mouth, rich, hot, and perfectly brewed. “Half of what you say is in your body.” 

Nick grins. “I assure you, Louis, they really aren’t missing out on a thing. We live stream the shows, for one. For another, I’ve got this damn SnapChat App, as I’m supposed to be appealing to the younger set, you know, as one does. But what a mess! I swear there’s a reason old people like me don’t do that shit. I couldn’t figure out what the buttons did. I kept thinking I was saving these hot, bedroom shots to my phone- like to remind myself of my smashing good looks whenever I’m feeling old and ugly and washed up or maybe to send to future boyfriends to lure them in. But then Harry texts me, after like a week of this. Turns out I’d been adding them to my ‘story’ so that the public could fucking see them.” 

Louis laughs. And the force of it surprises him. 

“My PR strategy was supposed to be stupid stories about my pathetic life alone with my puppy, you know, very funny, very sympathetic. And here I am posting dozens of sexy, pouty selfies.” 

“Sounds like a good addition to the narrative. Quite pathetic,” Louis teases. 

Nick laughs. “Yeah, old man reveals wrinkles, saggy neck, loneliness and ineptitude with technology all in one go.” 

Louis laughs again. He’s loud and his hand comes up to clutch at his throat. His neck and chest feel bare in the wide boat neck and he wishes he’d said to hell with the new look and changed into one of tees instead. 

He should be grateful, he thinks. Less than twenty years ago, when his mum was coming up, O’s were expected to keep their necks covered in public with scarves and turtlenecks. Still, he sort of wishes he was wearing one now, but knows that’d be a dead giveaway. The only people who wear those these days are old-fashioned O’s drawing attention to their availability and virtue as mates. 

That is the last thing Louis needs. He drops his hand. Even that gesture- touching his neck- might’ve been too much. 

He resists the urge to glance behind him, to see if Styles is openly watching them. Louis’d made sure to take the seat with his back to Styles’ table, not wanting his heavy, curious eyes on Louis’ every gesture and expression, analyzing, judging. The problem with this arrangement is that Louis can’t keep watch on Styles, can’t tell which pieces of Louis he’s caught on to and what he thinks about them. 

The one time he’d risked a look over his shoulder, Styles had his phone out in front of him, seemingly deeply engaged in an email or text message. Or maybe Candy Crush. 

“Can you tell me anything about the new album?” Grimmy asks, drawing Louis’ attention back to himself. “I won’t share it publicly, I promise. But I’m very curious, especially with these PR changes.” 

Louis considers the question carefully. He hasn’t really told the story to anyone yet, except for Liam. But Grimmy’s been kind and entertaining, and Louis has to start somewhere. 

He’s also ninety-nine percent sure that Grimmy’s contractually bound to keep his secrets. 

Keeping his voice low and his smile light, he says, “Believe it or not, it actually started with the music. Liam, who I’ve done a lot of writing with in the past, invited me over to his home studio one afternoon last fall at the tail end of promoting my second album, just to fuck around. I brought some notes with me, not really thinking that anything would come of it. But in the end, I was really proud of what we wrote that day, even though it was super honest. I didn’t really think we could do anything with it. Didn’t really go with my heartbreaker, clean-cut, bro, rockstar image.” 

“Imagine that,” Nick said. “Too soft?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Doesn’t fit my story, more like. But, anyway, Liam showed some of it to the people at the label, wanted to know if any of it was useable from their end and they _loved_ it.” Louis remembers Liam’s call, remembers how he’d dropped the phone into the sink when Liam said they wanted to use the stuff, almost exactly as they’d written it. 

“Cool,” Nick grins. “I remember when I got the call about the Breakfast Show, not eighteen months after I’d come out. It’s the most incredible feeling, knowing people want _you_ , you know? As you actually are.” 

A heaviness settles over Louis. That’s not the feeling he’d been describing, not exactly. His team still hasn’t figured out the narrative they want to sell, but it’s unlikely that it’ll reveal his secrets. At the last meeting, Jake had closed the conversation by putting on his glasses, neatening his stack of notes, and saying, in a clipped tone, “I think the best plan of action is a two-pronged approach. Don’t kill speculation about his _true_ sexuality, but push a loved-up narrative. I think the kid needs to get engaged. Then most people will think the album is about finding and accepting his true love. We’ll talk again after the outing with Grimshaw.” 

No one had mentioned the obvious elephant in the room. Louis’ last album had been a break-up/party album and he hadn’t been seen consistently with anyone since. 

Louis thinks he’s a long way from the world knowing and accepting exactly who he is. In fact, he suspects the world will _never_ know. 

“I’m curious now. Will you sing a little bit for me?” Nick asks. 

Louis laughs at the absurdity of it. Him singing aloud in the midst of this posh place filled with men in suits and nans in felt hats and rich tourists in yellow and pink sundresses. No fucking way. 

“Why don’t _you_ sing to me first?” He suggests. 

“I’m not the one about to put out an album,” Grimmy replies. 

“Have you ever thought about it? Releasing an album? Music? Comedy? Sketches from your show?” Louis leans forward, feeling the fabric of his shirt stretch around his body. He’s suddenly aware of Styles behind him again, thinks he might even be able to pick up his scent on the air. A ridiculous thought. He’s heard that bonded pairs can do things like that, pick each other's scent out in a large crowd. But he and Styles aren’t bonded; they’ve only met twice, for God’s sake. 

Nick tilts his head. “You flatter me,” he says with a smile. “But…” He lets the word hang for a minute before launching into a lengthy account of his dreams of being a successful stand-up comedian, of lining up all his stuffed animals as a child and reading them knock-knock joke after knock-knock joke. 

He’s reciting the ones he remembers to Louis, both of them laughing hysterically, when their food arrives. 

Grimmy’s alright, Louis thinks again, happy that work has thrown them together. It’s rare for him to make new friends these days and he feels light and giggly as they leave the restaurant, knowing and, for once, not caring that his grin will look ridiculous in the photos being snapped of their exit. 

When they’re back in the car, Styles seated in front this time, phone out, as though he’s not paying them any attention, Louis says, “We should go out.” 

Styles sets his own phone in his lap and peers over the seat at Louis. The butterflies Louis’d felt hours ago return.

He has to stop himself from saying, _Not you_. 

Nick asks, “Where? We were just _out_. Don’t you have things to do?” 

Louis does. His schedule is all filled up for the rest of the day. He’s due for a workout with his trainer in forty-five minutes and then for cocktails with a few folks from the fashion scene (including a model he suspects his team is considering linking him to more permanently). 

“I mean later. To a club.” Louis hasn’t gone _out_ out in ages. Literally. He hasn’t even been to a party outside of work commitments since right after finishing the X Factor. 

Nick nods to the front seat. “This one loves to dance.” 

“Fuck you,” Styles says with a surprising amount of bitterness. His glare is dark and steady on Nick. 

“Not a dancer, then?” Louis asks, curious despite himself. Styles definitely seems like the Staying-In-and-Binge-Watching-Dr.-Who Type. Not the Clubbing Type. At all. 

Nick laughs. “I’m serious, he loves to dance.” 

“I wish I’d never run into you that night, Nicholas. You swore you wouldn’t say a word to anyone. You swore you’d never bring it up again.” Styles’ voice is low and Louis thinks he might actually be angry. 

“You don’t know that,” Nick singsongs. “You don’t actually know what I said because you were too damn drunk to remember any of it. You might’ve sucked me off in the toilet and you’ll never know.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Louis likes the hot flush on Harry’s neck and the growl in his voice. “I don’t believe either of you. Styles here seems like the most action he’s gotten recently has been with his presentation research. He probably jerks off looking at charts and graphs on his iPhone.” 

Styles turns his gaze onto Louis and, _fuck_ , he should not have said that. Now he’s picturing Styles doing just that. Sprawled out on his bed, computer open in front of him, hand around his cock. Louis’ own dick twitches in his trousers and he swallows. 

Styles’ eyes narrow and his mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. God, _fuck_. Louis has _never_ talked like that to anyone he’s just met before, not in a professional setting, anyway. He’s always been so careful with his team, especially the Alphas. 

Styles licks his lips and _fuck_ if Louis’ hole doesn’t clench. 

Styles is attractive. His green eyes and broad shoulders and sweet scent appeal to Louis. He can admit to that much. He _needs_ to admit it. 

So that he can lock up his attraction and throw into the deep ‘feelings’ abyss where Louis tosses everything sexuality related. 

Except then Styles says, “I’d be lying if I said I’d never popped a knot that way.” 

“Too much information,” Nick says, waving his arms between them. “You two naughty lads work together _with me_ so I’m going to need you to step it down a notch.” 

He’s right. There are a million reasons to change the subject, to bring it straight back to the conversation about clubbing or something safer, Nick’s guest line-up next week, perhaps. 

Louis says, “You can’t pop a knot without an O around. Their pheromones are the trigger. That’s science, Styles. I thought you specialized in presentation.” 

Nick coughs. A lot. 

“That’s not _strictly_ true,” Styles says, a smile playing at his lips as he watches Nick recover. “But I was joking. I’ve never popped a knot, at all.” 

“You’re an Alpha,” Louis hears himself say. He shouldn’t sound so certain. Only O’s can trust their noses on this kind of thing. But it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

“Sharing time is finished. I need to be more drunk for this conversation. Let’s get back to clubbing?” Nick raises an eyebrow at Louis. “Is that really something your team lets you do?” 

“Of course,” Louis laughs. It’s not _his_ _team_ that’s prevented outings in the past. 

“Alright. I’m up for it,” Styles says.

Louis sucks in a breath, hand on his throat. He hadn’t meant to invite Styles, but he can’t not invite him, not now, anyway. 

“Really?” Nick says, his gaze on Styles, too. “This, I want to see. Count me in. Where are we going?” 

Louis’ nails dig into the thin skin on his neck, sending pricks of sensation skittering over his body. “I’ll text you with the details,” he says. He has no idea where they can have a good time without being spotted. He doesn’t _do_ this kind of thing. But Liam will help him. Liam will know. 

#

Louis’ yard is lovely, even at dusk. The stone path from the drive to the front door is well lit and willowy shrubs covered in flowers hover on one side. Harry presses the doorbell and contemplates the broad, dark wood in front of him. He’s never known popstars to be punctual. A grey cat wanders up to the tall, narrow window beside the door. 

The well manicured lawn and well kept gardens tell him nothing new about Louis. Nor does the small glimpse into his entryway Harry had gotten earlier in the day. The cat, however, is a surprise. 

Harry crouches down to gaze at it through the glass. The little guy’s ears go back and it hisses. Protective. Harry likes it.

Behind the still hissing cat, Louis’ legs come into view clad in skintight black denim. 

Harry rises as the door swings open and his eyes catch on Louis’ bare chest.

With effort Harry drags his gaze up to Louis’ face, which disappears as Louis pulls a shirt over his head. It’s black, but a little faded, and the jeans suddenly look bright in comparison. Harry likes the mismatch, likes the bit of Louis’ hair that’s stuck up on the side, likes the faint flush spreading on Louis’ cheeks, likes the stutter he lets out when he sees Harry. 

“Uh, uhm. Hello. Sorry.” 

Harry wants to reach out, to fluff up the rest of Louis’ hair. However, he’s learned better manners than that. Too many Alphas overstep those kinds of boundaries. His little sister Amelia complains about it all the time, especially with his niece Lola. Harry never wants to be that kind of Alpha. 

“Hi,” Harry says. 

Louis blinks back, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. 

Suddenly, Harry feels out of place, an urge to run back to the waiting car almost overtaking him. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to show up on time.” Louis isn’t looking at him. He’s pulling on the bottom of his shirt and glancing over his shoulder at his reflection in the floor-length mirror behind him. 

“Do you need to finish getting dressed?” Harry asks, allowing himself another long look up and down Louis’ body. His feet are bare and the cat is winding its way between them, nuzzling his ankles and purring. A few grey hairs stick to the black fabric covering his calves. 

The hem of his jeans is rolled up just enough to reveal his triangle tattoo and Harry’s eyes stick there for a second. 

“No. I’m ready.” When Harry’s gaze moves upward, Louis is rubbing his hands together and grinning, all traces of uncertainty gone and what Harry realizes is his usual mask of cheer and confidence firmly in place. 

“You’re not wearing any shoes,” Harry notes.

They both look down at Louis’ feet. He flexes his toes and laughs. “Right. Just a moment.” 

He opens a closet disappearing inside it for a moment before reappearing with a pair of sneakers, cleaner and shinier than any pair Harry’s ever owned. (To be fair, he’s never really had an interest in ‘new’ things. He prefers to shop at thrift stores and junk shops for almost everything.) 

Louis tucks the shoes under his arm and gestures to the door. “Shall we?” 

“So formal, practically _posh_ ,” Harry hears himself say and for the first time he wonders how Louis grew up and where. It’s not something the bloggers he follows speak much about and he definitely hasn’t received any such info from Louis’ team. Louis’ family seems to stay well out of the public eye, but the X Factor survives on the backs of working class kids, so it’s unlikely that Louis came from money or class. Still, Harry’s surprised with himself. He’d have usually dug up his client’s background by now, but he’s been too interested in digging into the question of his presentation and sexual orientation. 

“‘M not,” Louis tells him, shaking his head. “Not like you.” 

Harry grins and doesn’t disagree. He’s not actually posh either, though, much to his grandparents’ chagrin. Unfortunately for them, their son hadn’t been much of a role model, or rather, he hadn’t been a role model in class and refinement, anyway. 

Louis locks his door and leads the way down the path to the car. Harry can’t take his eyes off of him. Each movement is smooth and precise. Harry wonders how much time he spends in the gym. At least a couple of hours a day, probably a lot of it on the treadmill, running, if the way his calves pull tight on the fabric of his jeans is any indication. Then, as his eyes slide up Louis’ body, he notices a tag dangling from his ass. 

Louis has never worn these jeans before, Harry realizes, and he reaches to unpin it. 

Louis freezes and Harry drops his hand. 

This is exactly the type of shit his sister has warned him _not_ to do. 

“What the fuck?” Louis asks. 

“Sorry. I wasn’t feeling you up,” Harry explains, in a rush. “You’ve just got something…” 

“I didn’t think you were,” Louis says, arching his back and sticking his bum out toward Harry. “What’ve I got on me? Did I sit in something? I can't have. I haven’t actually sat down in these yet.” 

“The tag,” Harry explains. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you without asking permission.” 

Louis wiggles his ass. “Are you gonna finish what you’ve started or what?” 

His voice is light. He’s _teasing_ Harry. 

“What, _exactly_ ,-“ Harry lays on the word “-have I started?” His lips are dry and his throat feels tight. Nick’s right. Nick’s always been right. Louis is exactly Harry’s type- despite his fame- and now he’s practically begging for Harry to touch his bum. 

Is Louis _flirting?_ With Harry, an _Alpha_? 

“Taking the tag off, you huge _knot_ head.” ‘Knothead’ is an insult, Harry reminds himself, no matter how deliciously filthy Louis’ just made it sound. 

Harry’s fingers fly forward and he pushes loose the pin from the pocket of Louis’ jeans. His thumb presses into soft flesh and Louis lets out a breath that Harry shouldn’t be able to hear. 

The air suddenly smells faintly of flowers, rich, but not thick enough to be cloying. As Harry hands the pin and paper to Louis he glances at the nearby beds. In this part of the yard, all the plants are leafy green. 

Louis clears his throat. “Nick’s waiting?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, sniffing surreptitiously, trying to catch another hint of the floral scent. 

At that moment, Nick opens the door to the car. “What the hell are you two doing?” 

“Fucking around without you, that’s what,” Louis shouts back. Nick laughs, his eyes disappearing into happy slits. Harry ignores the stuttering of his heart and follows Louis into the waiting vehicle. He has a job to do. 

~ 

The music washes over and around Harry like the ocean, a rush hitting him full in the face, dimming his senses and numbing his mind. He places his hand on one of the tall tables right inside the door, between several abandoned cocktails, and closes his eyes. Immediately, everything disappears. His thoughts, his worries, they all melt away and he’s lost to it. 

Except he can’t be, not tonight. 

“Harry. Haz. _Styles_.” Nick’s voice pulls him back, so that his feet feel heavy on the floor and the table hard against his fingers. He opens his eyes. 

Nick is frowning at him. Louis’ eyes are elsewhere, scanning the club, a pinch of skin puckering between his brows. When he feels Harry’s gaze on him, however, his face transforms into a comfortable smile. 

“So this is where all the scenters hang out, eh?” Louis asks. 

Harry shrugs. Louis had suggested the club, but it’s one Harry’s familiar with and Louis is correct. A lot of Alphas and Omegas _do_ frequent it. In fact, the privacy it promises for wealthy clients, particularly those with public personas and unusual tastes puts it high on Grimmy’s list of favorite places, Harry knows. 

“No one’s gonna say shit about anything that happens here,” Nick explains. “We can stink the place up. Makes it especially appealing for wet-asses, if you’re into that kind of thing.” After a moment, he focuses his gaze intently on Louis. “ _Are_ you into that kind of thing?” 

Louis grimaces. Harry laughs and tests, “Got a problem with O’s?” 

“No,” Louis retorts, beginning to walk away, toward the bar. Harry follows trying to catch his next words. “I’m just not _attracted_ to them is all.” 

“Didn’t you date…” Nick begins. 

“Grimmy. I like you, so I’m going to be honest with you.” Louis’ leaning on the bar, stance wide and eyes sharp. His back is to the bartender who’s watching the three of them closely. Harry thinks he must recognize Louis, or maybe Nick. Yeah, definitely the latter. His eyes are lingering on Nick’s admittedly long neck. 

Louis continues, voice bright, “I’ve never _dated_ anyone, not since before the X Factor. I don’t have the time or energy for that kind of thing.” 

Harry’s breath catches and his gaze zeroes straight back in on Louis. He can’t seem to help himself. The kid’s _never_ had a relationship? That’s fucking wild, doesn’t make sense. He’s gorgeous, for one. And funny and smart and millions of people, tens of millions, would jump at the chance to get to know him better. 

So as easily as Louis’ answer seems to fall from his lips, Harry knows it’d be just as easy for him bring someone with him, keep it a secret. Back doors and locked social media and private tropical vacations, they all exist. Hell, Harry’s helped orchestrate them for clients in the past. 

Record labels are, in Harry’s opinion, far too indulgent with their clients’ _romances_. In his opinion, significant others are distracting, the cause of missed appointments and passed deadlines and half-assed performances, but he knows well the other side of the argument. The suits usually claim that performers are _more_ distracted if they _can’t_ indulge their sexual inclinations and safer the devil you know than the rando you don’t. 

“Never?” Nick asks, tilting his head to the side and leaning in. 

Some of Louis’ internet fans would be gravely disappointed to know this. Harry follows a slew of ‘Lilo’ shippers who speculate, only half-jokingly, about Louis’ relationship with songwriter Liam Payne, many of them at least open to the possibility that the two Betas may be long-term lovers. 

Apparently, they are not. 

“You don’t believe me?” Louis directs this question to Harry. And, the thing is, Harry _does_ believe him. 

“The only people you spend much time with behind closed doors are your body guard, your housekeeper, and Liam Payne. That’s slim pickings.” Harry realizes how close they’re standing. He doesn’t know when or how he’d come to stand all but between Louis’ widespread legs. 

Louis quirks a brow and then turns to back to the bar, his ass brushing Harry’s crotch, casual-like. An accident. Still completely professional. 

Harry closes his eyes. He’s better than this. He’s not gonna fuck up his job because a client with nice eyelashes and a nicer ass is cosying up to him. 

Except that with his eyes shut, the music washes over him again and sends a shiver down spine, his body instinctively relaxing. He doesn’t go out to clubs with people he knows for a reason. 

“Earth to Styles! Hey! Harry!” Harry blinks his eyes open to find Louis looking over his shoulder at Harry, eyebrow quirked again, waiting. 

“Yeah?” He asks, hearing the rough pull in his voice. This was not a good idea. He needs to get away from Louis and Nick, to get lost in the crowd or go home. 

“What are you drinking?” Nick asks. 

“Whiskey sour,” Harry answers. Drinks help him disappear, so that’s that decision made. He’s not going home. He reaches for his credit card, but Louis’ hand snakes out to stay his wrist. 

“It’s on me. I asked you to come out.” Harry wants to protest. Louis clearly hadn’t wanted him to come. His invitation had been for Nick and Nick alone. Nick’s tendency to over-invite and Harry’s curiosity had pushed the issue. 

Louis licks his lips, an unconscious motion surely, and pinpricks of heat break out at the base of Harry’s spine. Harry nods and accepts the drink.

 

Once they all have drinks in hand, Harry says, “I want to dance.” 

Nick laughs. “Good. We want to watch.”

That’s how this started, isn’t it? Nick making fun of his dancing. He should have known better than to imagine that he’d be able to free himself of the two of them so easily. 

“I knew you had a crush on me, Nicholas,” Harry says, wagging a finger at him. 

“Sure do,” Nick replies easily. He’s never really denied it and Harry’s imagined indulging him. Harry likes another Alpha every once in awhile and Nick is easy to be around, fun. Harry thinks they’d laugh a lot during sex. Nothing sweet or world-shaking. But that’d be alright. 

The problem is that they work together. 

“I thought your type was Betas with bum?” Louis asks, eyes on Harry. 

“You’ve been paying attention? Your type gangly nerds, Tommo?” Nick winks at Louis and Louis makes a sour face.

With the two of them focused on each other, Harry takes the opportunity to slip out onto the dance floor. He slides around a couple dancing close and then into and through some sort of weird orgy circle. When he finds a spot with enough room, he sips his drink, closes his eyes and lets go. 

The music vibrates through him, a physical force that moves him round and round. He keeps his eyes closed and his mind focused on the hum of the bass, the repetitive trill of the melody, lets them guide his limbs. His arms spread wide, arcing up and down, hips and bum wiggling in a slower rhythm than the rest of him. 

For a few minutes, that’s all he knows, sound and movement and color blurry, but wholly enveloping. 

And then he feels someone in his space. He opens his eyes. 

Soft brown hair sticking to the back and side of a smooth tan neck. Round ass bouncing to the beat dangerously close to his own front. 

Louis. 

Harry casts his gaze about, looking to see if Nick’s found him as well. He’d been able to convince him the other time was a one off. Harry’d needed to blow some steam, gotten a little too drunk, let the music carry him away. All that had been true, of course. What hadn’t been true is how Harry had attempted to make it sound like this was something that had never happened to him before, that he was surprised that it happened at all. 

That was false. 

Harry loves to dance. He goes out at least once or twice a month, always on his own, always seeking the total release he can only find when he gives in to the bass and his body, when he stops thinking and lets himself feel and move and be. Clubbing has proven more cathartic than meditating, despite his therapist’s reservations. 

Harry can’t have other people with him though, not people he knows. Then he thinks. Then he worries. Then he can’t disappear. 

He doesn’t want Louis to see him now, or Nick. He should have known not to even try to lose himself tonight. He’s here for work and he needs to remember that, no matter how riled up Louis’ teasing interest had gotten him. 

And, fuck, is he riled up. He’d been half-hoping to disappear to himself and his friends and then reappear in the arms of a stranger, find a little sexual release. He has to be careful, of course, as an Alpha, not cross lines, and definitely not end up with his knot up a random Omega’s ass. But he’s done it before, found some willing Beta and taken them to the toilet, pulled them off in a stall, finding his way home relaxed and sated in a way he almost never is. 

That would have been nice this evening, if unlikely. Instead, he’s been found out. By Louis, who remains oblivious to his distress. Louis who is inching back slowly, farther and farther into Harry’s space. Louis whose neck is bare, at least the left side of it, a drop of sweat sliding into the collar of shirt. 

“What are you doing out here?” Harry presses his mouth to Louis’ ear, the motion bringing Louis so close that the round flesh of his ass is flush against Harry’s front. Louis leans back into the touch for a moment and Harry hears him take a shaky breath. 

He turns his head and his nose brushes Harry’s cheek. “Dancing,” he says, mouth broad, both shouting and over-enunciating to be heard in the din. Then he adds, “Just like you.” 

Harry takes a step back from him, wanting to see if it’s true, if Louis might be keeping the same secret he is, if Louis might like to step out into a throng of bodies, leave behind all his anxieties, and just _move_. 

Louis continues to dance, back still to Harry, though he keeps his head angled so that he can watch Harry’s face out of the corner of his eye. He’s good, Harry realizes, riding the beat like a pro, _like the popstar he is,_ Harry reminds himself. His hips move in ways that Harry couldn’t imitate if he tried (and he has no intention of trying). Harry can picture Louis on stage suddenly, lights in his face, crowd calling his name, body moving just like this: putting on a show. 

He’s not like Harry, no. But that’s okay. Harry likes him like this. 

He dances backward into Harry’s space again, a smirk on his face. “I’m good,” Louis says and it’s definitely not a question. He knows what he looks like, what his movements make someone like Harry think and feel. Harry nods anyway, filled with an eager urge to praise him. 

“Yeah, you are.” Harry’s voice is a rasp. Arousal unfurls low in his belly, as Louis settles back against him. 

The club is alive with scents. Every inward breath carries honey and freesia, warm earth and the hint of slightly charred burger. In crowded places like airports and busy cafes, Harry often entertains himself by attempting to decipher from whom each scent is wafting. 

He’s become quite adept at picking out the Alphas and the attaching them to their appropriate scent. He has more difficulty with Omegas. They only scent strongly when they’re aroused and, for his own safety and sanity, Harry tries to avoid them when he notices their scents, especially in places like this. Every time a sweet scent hits hard, he’ll drift away to a different part of the dance floor. 

And that’s what he should do now, because a rich floral scent, something that had started as just a pleasant whiff of a thing, is building around him. The scent is familiar, he thinks. He’d smelled it recently. _In Louis’ garden._

He has to hold back a gasp when the connection lights up in his mind, bright and all but certain. Still, he wants to test the theory, to lean in just a little bit closer, to inhale deeply, to _know_. 

The alcohol and the bass and the flowers, they’re all a haze around him and the urge to _take_ is more overwhelming than he’s ever experienced before. He’s heard about this feeling, of course, read about it in books, scribbled down descriptions of it during research interviews. Clients have talked to him about it, claimed it the inspiration for much of their work. 

Harry’d chocked all of it up to a mixture of lore and fantasy and exaggeration. In terms of scientific measures, hormones shouldn’t _actually_ overwhelm an Alpha’s executive function, shouldn’t force them to lose control. 

Not that Harry is out of control, not that he couldn’t stop himself from doing what he does next, from leaning in, hair brushing against Louis’ ear, lips not inches away from Louis’ shoulder, nose all but touching Louis’ neck. He breathes in. 

Louis smells like a mid-summer evening in a garden, like warmth and romance and moonlight. 

Harry takes in another breath and Louis’ head tilts to the side, allowing Harry better access. His skin is smooth, unlined, unblemished, and covered in a thin sheen of glistening sweat. Harry wants to lick it up. 

Harry lets out the breath, moving closer still, nose bumping skin. 

Louis’ body tenses, bowstring tight. 

“Louis?” 

“Fuck,” Louis hisses out. “Oh fuck.” 

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd, leaving only the faintest trace of himself behind, lingering in the air. 

#

David frowns at Louis as he climbs into the front seat. 

“You went out,” David says. Louis should have alerted David, probably should have brought him along, but Liam had assured Louis that the club was safe _and_ discreet. He hadn’t expected to need protection or an early ride back. 

“And now I’m going home,” Louis replies, eyes on the road. He’s trying to calm the racing of his pulse, to ignore the way that Harry’s scent has followed him into the car. 

David has been working for Louis for over a year and he knows better than to ask too many question. David’s a Beta and won’t be able to smell anything on Louis, not his arousal, nor Harry’s. 

Really, _no one_ should be able to smell Louis. His label’s been spending an arm and a leg for high end suppressants. If he takes them at the same time every day- which he does- they keep heats at bay with the usual hormone cocktail, but they also contain expensive additives that are supposed to dampen Louis’ scent. It should be indecipherable, even when he’s aroused. His Presentation Specialist has explained that the drugs are experimental and costly to make, not yet mass produced, but Louis’ never had any trouble with them, not before tonight. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he lets the temptation to check it build for a minute or so before pulling it out. 

The text is from Nick, _bye then_

He rolls his eyes. After his run-in with Harry on the dance floor, he’d texted Nick a quick note that he’d called his bodyguard to pick him up. 

_We’ll do it again,_ he types back, adding in his head, _without Styles_. 

He’s never had anyone find out about him like that before, by smelling _arousal_ on him, by making him hot and damp and then _scenting_ him. 

It’s embarrassing. And frightening. Because if it can happen once, it can happen again. And not only with Styles. Though, fuck if that A isn’t trouble.

It’s also- _fuck._ It’s also _hot._ Harry is _hot_. That Harry _knows_ about him is hot. That Harry _wants_ him is hot. 

His phone buzzes again and he looks at it, expecting another reply from Grimmy, something cheeky like _yeah right_ or _when? Tomorrow? When hell freezes over and pigs fly?_

But it’s not Nick, it’s Harry. 

_I shouldn’t have scented you. Very inappropriate. My fault._

None of that is true, not exactly. People scent each other all the time in clubs; it’s part of hooking up with other scenters. And Louis hadn’t been doing anything to discourage his advances. Fueled by alcohol, anonymity, and Harry’s own scent, Louis had gotten carried away dancing. He’d practically been putting on a show for Harry. 

He thinks back to the moment he first felt Harry’s breath on his neck. He’d already been wet, had felt the first throb of arousal when Harry touched his ass, long fingers pressing into Louis’ backside as he unpinned that damn tag. 

So by the time Harry leaned in to scent him, Louis had been aching for it, no longer thinking clearly. He’d tilted his head, deferring, letting Harry _know_ him. 

Louis’d never done that before. He’d never even been tempted to let an Alpha that close to his neck. He has no idea what had gotten into him, what the fuck it was about Styles. 

Or rather, he doesn’t understand why Harry’s heavy, curious gaze unsettles him so deeply (and so _pleasantly)_ and why he wants, so desperately he itches with it, to break Styles’ seemingly impassable facade. 

He texts back, _thank you for the apology_

Then Harry texts, like a _fucking_ idiot, _so you’re an O_? 

What if Louis was with other people? What if his phone was stolen? What if Harry’s phone was stolen? What someone hacked into one of their accounts and _saw_ that text? What if someone was looking over _Harry’s_ shoulder (like _Nick_ )? 

_Delete that text msg_ , Louis replies, after doing so himself. 

He waits a moment, expecting a protest. He can see that Harry’s still got the text window open, the three dots indicating that Harry is typing _something._ But then the dots disappear and no message zips through the line. 

Harry must have questions. And, Louis supposes, he’s coming onto Louis’ team, already bound by all kinds of secrecy clauses. Louis might as well fill him in. But not like this, not over text. 

He closes his eyes. His breathing has calmed and so has his pulse. He shifts his weight, testing the tug and pull of his jeans against his ass. Yes, he can handle himself with Styles. 

He texts, _we should get brunch. i want to talk strategy for the album release._

He doesn’t, not really. But ‘strategy for the album release’ makes a good pretense for brunch and Louis is desperate to clear the air. 

_Ok._ Harry replies. And then, _where should I meet you? And when?_

Louis glances over at David. They’re pulling up into the driveway, and the tired, unhappy glint hasn’t left his eyes. He does not like being woken in the middle of the night and Louis’ already cringing at the thought of asking him for his services tomorrow morning. Yes, he’s on retainer, but he’s not a fucking machine. 

Louis types a response and then deletes it and then types it again, pressing send, smacking a firm grin into place. At least this way he can have full control of the situation. 

_Come over to mine. You can make me breakfast as a proper apology._

A few minutes later, when he’s brushing his teeth, he retrieves the phone and opens the message chain. Harry hasn’t replied and he rereads the message. 

_Fuck_ , that sounds like flirting, practically a come on. Goddamn it. He hadn’t meant it that way. 

He slathers his toothbrush with toothpaste and takes a breath. No, it only soundslike flirting because he’s attracted to Harry. He’d say the same thing to Liam or his mum. He would. He definitely would. Just like that. Same exact words. 

He’s fine. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. 

~

Harry’s hair is sticking up in odd places, his curls not falling evenly, like he’d slept on it wet, and his clothes, a yellow floral shirt that looks like it came out of someone’s grandma’s closet and faded blue jeans, are rumpled. He’s chewing the side of his thumb, eyes wide as he takes in Louis’ kitchen. 

“It’s so big.” 

It is. And yet Harry’s scent has quickly and completely filled the space. 

“I know,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows and then cursing himself silently. It’s as though he can’t help but flirt.

“I can imagine.” Harry smiles at him, a broad and dimpled grin, which somehow makes Louis feel better and not worse. “But this place. Like, it’s just for you? Do you even cook?” 

Louis laughs and nods. He does cook. A little. A few times. Sort of. 

Harry slumps onto a stool next to Louis’ admittedly much too large island. “I like it. I know they always say Omegas make the worst chefs, but I don’t believe it, not for a second. So much of that stuff is based on fantasy, not data, and definitely not biology.” 

Louis shrugs. “They say Alphas are the _best_ cooks. Is that true?” 

Harry folds his arms over his chest. “I can cook.” 

Louis smirks. 

“Yeah? Can you?” A’s have a tendency to be so fucking cocky. He hasn’t seen much of that from Harry, but he tempted to try to tease it out of him. 

“I can,” Harry says firmly, brows drawing together. After a moment, he admits, “I’m just not very practiced.” 

Louis wags a finger at Harry. “No, no.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. You’re meant to cook me an apology breakfast.” 

Harry blinks at him. “I’m really not trying to get out of it. I can cook fine eggs. Great. Excellent.” He pauses. “Eggcellent, even.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and Harry continues, “I just- I wouldn’t say I’m ‘the best.’” 

The next words slip right out of Louis’ mouth before he can catch them. “You’re an Alpha. You’re biologically enabled to feed Omegas. It’s in your fucking DNA.” 

“No, it’s not.” Styles shakes his head. Eyes down as if studying the counter, he says, “Actually, this is kind of interesting. Because a lot of people used to think that, scientists even. But a study was done, I don’t know, ten years back, on the efficiency of the cooking technique and the amount of nutrition packed into meals cooked by Alphas versus meals cooked by Betas. I don’t remember what exactly they told the Betas they were cooking _for_ , but the Alphas all knew that their meals would go to a safe house for unbonded Omegas. And there was no significant difference in outcomes. None at all. In fact, by some measures, Betas performed slightly better. Obviously, more studies need to be performed. And it might be different between bond mates, but I highly doubt it.”

Harry looks up at Louis and taps his temple with his finger. “Think about it, how could my hormones possibly make me a good cook? It’s just an old wives’ tale. Or actually, I suspect that Omegas, because they’re so desperate for calories right after a heat, are less discerning in what they eat, easier to please, you know? But, of course, that hypothesis hasn’t been tested either.” 

“Fascinating stuff,” Louis tells him, even though the way Harry’s eyes dance and the way his fucking _dimple_ twitches in his cheek is much _more_ fascinating than the words he’s saying. And also, “So what you’re saying is, you’re going to ruin our breakfast.” 

“I _can_ cook.” Harry’s brows draw together. “I can.” 

“Sure,” Louis shrugs. “Let’s see it then.” He opens the carton and pulls out six eggs, laying three on the counter in front of each of them. 

Harry’s eyes narrow and his teeth appear to tug on his lower lip. He’s already sweating, then. It’s clear that the A doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.

“A competition?” Harry asks.

“If you like,” Louis shrugs again, trying to act casual. He’s cool with having a strange Alpha in his home, in his kitchen. Cooking for him. He’s better than cool. Brilliant, in fact. 

Again, he curses the hormone-addled part of his mind that had thought it a good idea to text Harry the invite last night.

“Just eggs?” Harry’s folded his arms across his chest and taken his chin between his fingers. Louis imagines that this is how he looks when he examines the charts of A/B/O data with his father and when he maps out consumer feedback on his clients. Curious. Intense. 

“No,” Louis says. “Omelets.” 

Harry’s gaze whips to Louis’ face. “What kind?” 

“Anything you can find is fair game.” He’s not sure what he has. Onions and peppers maybe. Some fancy cheeses David likes to keep on hand for fancy sandwiches. Louis doesn’t eat in much himself. 

Harry nods judiciously and begins to systematically open and shut Louis’ cupboards, noting the contents of each with sharp nods of his head. He opens the refrigerator last, checking each drawer and shelf with the same care he’d used on the cupboards. 

Louis sees that he was right about the cheese and the peppers, but that he has a few other intriguing ingredients as well: spinach, salsa, and raisin bread. 

As he sets to his own work, he keeps an eye on Harry, who’s pulled out his phone and appears to be scouring the internet for recipes and cooking hints. 

Louis’ mum had never used recipes and Louis prides himself on following in her footsteps. He estimates the amount of milk and cheese he needs and does the same with the onions and spinach. After a moment of hesitation, he decides to sauté the latter while the eggs heat up. 

The whole process doesn’t take Louis but ten minutes and then another two to chop and arrange a tomato garnish. 

Harry’s just flipped his own omelet closed and reapplied the lid to his pan. He squints over at Louis. “That was quick.” 

Louis flashes him a grin. “And it’ll be better than yours.” 

Harry tilts his head. “We’ll see about that.” 

Though Harry’s demeanor appears relaxed and focused, he must want to argue the point. Louis is all but flat out insulting his dignity as an Alpha. Some of the other As Louis’ encountered would have slapped him by now. 

They divvy out the omelets, half on each of their plates. Harry’s is alright. (Well, actually it’s a little a burned on the bottom and a little wet in the middle- barely edible, really.) Louis’ is better. 

“Mine is better,” Louis says, taking another spinach filled bite. 

Harry shakes his head, but says, “I don’t know where I went wrong. The instructions said to keep the heat on medium high, but I guess medium would have been best on that stove. If I had known your kitchen better, I’d have won.” 

“Sure,” Louis allows. He wouldn’t’ve, but Louis’ not looking for an argument, not under the circumstances. 

He watches Harry scrolling on his phone, the recipe open again, probably trying to figure out if he’d misread something or leaving a nasty review. Finally, he looks up and meets Louis’ eyes. 

“So I’m an O,” Louis hears himself say.

Their omelets are all but finished. Time to clear the air and send Harry packing. 

Harry blinks. “I know.” 

Anxiety bubbles up in Louis’ chest. 

“Did you know before last night? Is it obvious? How did you figure it out? Just by my smell?” The questions pour out of him and suddenly, without forethought; Louis is desperate to know the answers to all of them at once. He’s worked so hard to hide his presentation with suppressants and deodorizers. On top of which, Louis doesn’t allow Alphas to stand within a foot of him, generally speaking. 

“I didn’t know before last night. You surprised me.” Harry sounds as though he is still surprised, tone wide as his eyes and filled with wonder. “You really did.” 

# 

Louis _had_ surprised him, is the thing. Sure, he’d been suspicious, had known that Louis was probably lying about his sexual orientation or his presentation in some capacity, but that whiff of Louis’ scent- soft and sweet, wrapping round Harry and pulling him in- that had frozen Harry in place, caught him so off guard he’d almost forgotten where he was and who he was and who he was with. 

He can’t remember the last time that had happened, unintentionally. 

“You don’t seem like the type who’s surprised very often.” Louis smiles tightly around another bite of egg. 

“I’m not,” Harry agrees. 

Louis sets his fork down with a little clatter. “So you didn’t figure it out before that? That I was an O?” 

Harry tries to meet Louis’ eyes, but all of Louis’ attention is focused on the little yellow boulder of egg and spinach sitting at the edge of his plate. 

“I mean, I wondered. You know, on the internet…” Harry begins and then stops. Maybe it’s awkward to reveal that he’s been hanging around Louis Tomlinson tumblrs. 

It’s too late, though, because Louis is already turning toward him, grinning. “You’ve been reading about me on Twitter, Styles?” 

“Tumblr,” Harry corrects, matching him smile for smile. 

Louis sucks in a quick breath and then nods. “Lots of weird shit over there. People writing erotic stories about me and Grimmy. We’re apparently always giving each other facials and pissing all over each other’s chests.” 

Harry’s yet to click on a ‘fanfic’ and Louis’ summary turns his stomach, but he licks his lips. “I know,” he lies. 

Louis’ eyebrows jump and then his face settles back into a careful mask as he returns his gaze to that last bite egg. “I suppose it’s your job as Grimmy’s PR person to know what’s out there.” 

Harry nods and lifts a thumb to his mouth. “Obviously.” He’s trying very hard to block out the image of Grimmy’s dick, which he hasunfortunately seen, though not hard, pointed at Louis’ face. 

“I find what they write about me and Zayn much more disturbing. It’s more popular, too, as you probably know. The whole enemies-but-secret-lovers hate-sex thing is very appealing to a certain set.” 

Harry’s seen this as well. It’s nearly impossible to miss. In fact, ‘Zouis,’ as they’re called, is by far the most popular Louis Tomlinson ship, no doubt one of many reasons Shady Lane likes to play up their rivalry. 

“I read the one where you’re rival space pirates who team up to fight the same galactic empire. The author’s understanding of physics was quite impressive.” Harry hasn’t actually read the story, but he’s seen it referenced dozens of times. He likes the author’s perspective on Louis, which she memes and shitposts about with regularity. 

In that fic, Louis is an O. 

Louis shudders. “I can’t stomach that shit.” 

“Not a fan of science fiction?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “So you feel I’m doing an alright job of keeping my presentation under wraps, then?” 

Harry swallows. “A few people know, I think.” 

 

Louis squints, shifts in his seat, and looks out the window across the room. “Yeah,” he agrees, standing to grab the plates and take them over to the sink. 

Harry waits for him to say more. He knows Louis knows who he’s talking about. This particular set of bloggers makes a very convincing case that Louis responds to their theories and conversation through tee-shirts, tattoos, and lyric quotes. Their case is especially convincing now that Harry knows they’re right about Louis’ presentation. 

“I try not to be obvious,” Louis says, voice barely carrying over the hiss of the faucet. “But it’s nice to know that a group of people has my back and adore me for, like, being an O, or whatever.” 

Harry nods. “I don’t think they’re the only ones who would, either.” 

Louis turns off the sink, but doesn’t look at Harry. Jaw tense, he asks, “What do you mean?” 

“Well,” Harry draws out the word. He hasn’t thought through what he’s about to say. It’s coming to him right now, in the moment. He’d usually research, write out a long list of pros and cons, create plans A-Z with various contingencies before presenting something like this to an actual client. “I have an idea.” 

Louis nods and walks back to the breakfast bar. His head is tilted so that a hint of his neck is on display. Harry’s gaze locks on it, distracted, but only for a moment. “You know how you were thinking about making a splash with this record, changing your image to something softer, more mature, more honest? What if you did something so big, so barrier-breaking, that Zayn could do _nothing_ to compete?” 

Louis nods, fingering the handle of his tea cup. His gaze is steady. This kind of image-shaping, it’s Louis’ game, Harry realizes, and he enjoys it. 

“Jake thinks that the safest bet is an engagement with a Beta,” Louis says and Harry nods. He’d heard as much. “But Emma, the head of my team, was suggesting that I date an O, like _very_ seriously. After the press with Grimmy, speculation would probably run wild that I might be an A. Some of the music I’ve been writing has hinted about me being a scenter, see, so that would play into the whole ‘being more honest’ vibe I want.” 

“What if you dated an Alpha instead?” Harry asks. 

“Fuck, no,” Louis spits back. Fist smacking the counter, he says again, “No. No Alphas.” 

“Hear me out, this generation’s bread and butter is authenticity and social change and identity politics. You could be a hero, if you played your cards right.” 

“I’ve thought about this. I’ve done my homework on O celebs, trust me. The public would canonize me for standing up for Os, but then lose interest if I actually admitted to being one. You know that’s true. No big artist has been able to stay on top after coming out.” 

“David Bowie. Freddie Mercury. Elton John. Sam Smith.”

“Sam and Elton were gay Betas, not Os and neither Mercury, nor Bowie ever formally came out as an O. They just hinted at it, which, I’ll give them, was pretty badass, but still not an actual precedent for the kind of shit you’re talking about…” 

His voice has an edge to it. Harry thinks he probably means it to be bitter and off-putting, but Harry reads excitement underneath. Maybe, just maybe, Louis might be interested in doing this. If Harry can only find the words to convince him. 

“It’s not the 1980s anymore. We live in a different world. Louis, you’re so famous and so beloved already that you could make a huge difference in the lives of so many Os. God, reading some of the shit they write about you on tumblr, you already have.” His voice has taken on a plaintive quality. Harry hadn’t realized that he was already so invested in this idea. 

Louis takes an unsteady breath and Harry can see it suddenly, plain as day: the delicate arch of his eyebrow, the fine cut of his nose and cheekbones, the inviting line of his neck. Classic Omega features. 

“Max will literally _never_ go for this, even if I did agree with you. Way too risky. He doesn’t even want to suggest that I’m an A. That’d make me too intimidating for the parents’ of my younger fans. Never in a million years would he go for me coming out as an O.”

“I could convince him. That’s what Sam said, too, and Nick. He and Jake both trust my input on these things and you should, too. And even if he doesn’t go for a full-blown coming out, we could hint at it for a while and check-in with the numbers. Convince him with data, current data, about _you._ ” 

Louis shrugs. “I mean, you’re welcome to try. I’m not completely opposed to the idea.” His brows are drawn though, and he keeps adjusting his shirt. Nervous ticks. 

Harry continues to watch Louis. Finally, he looks away from Harry, sips his tea, and turns toward the far window again. His fingers drum against the marble countertop and then wander a few inches over to rest on top of his phone. Harry’s eyes linger on his neck. Again. 

Louis swipes the screen of his phone unlocked. Shakily, he says, “You really think this would be a good move? That people would think I was some sort of hero for it?” 

Harry chews his lip. He’d think Louis was ‘some sort of hero’ for it, that’s for damn sure. And so would the Louis Tomlinson tumblrs he follows. But, aside from those two almost certain facts, he has no data to back up his claim. “I’d need to do the research to make sure, but I think so.” 

Louis nods. “Do the research. And then bring your findings to the team meeting we’re having on Tuesday. I think they want to finalize the engagement plan, so you’d have to be _very_ convincing to even have a chance.” 

Harry nods. “I can be quite thorough.” 

Louis face flushes pink and Harry wonders what he’s reading into that statement. It’s probably true, whatever it is. Harry always takes care of business, always follows through.

Pushing his mug in Harry’s direction, Louis says, “Let’s see you be thorough with the dishes, then.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Don’t you have a housekeeper?” 

Louis’ stares at him for a moment, face blank, considering, before he smirks and tilts his head. Harry’s breath catches. _Jesus._ Louis figures he can play to Harry’s Alpha instincts. 

He’s right. 

Harry picks up the remaining dirty dishes and carries them over to the sink. 

“Oh, stop that. I was teasing. I can do it.” Louis’ voice shakes with laughter. “I can’t believe…” 

Harry watches him, confused. “What can’t you believe?”

Louis licks his lips. For a moment, Harry doesn’t think he’s going to answer the question. “I tilt my head, show you a little neck, and just like that you’ll do whatever I ask?” 

“No,” Harry retorts. “I will not do _whatever_ you ask.” 

“I thought it was a myth, the idea that As’ hormones are so overpowering they’d do anything an O asked of them.” Louis is grinning now, the laughter in his voice at Harry’s expense. 

“It _is_ a myth,” Harry tells him. “I was being polite.” 

Louis leans on the counter, tucking his chin. Harry doesn’t think this gesture’s on purpose and he forces himself to take a deep breath. He wishes he could smell Louis, but he can’t. 

“You should probably head home,” Louis tells him. “Not proper for a unbonded Alpha to be spending unchaperoned time with an unbonded Omega, in his home, no less.” 

“What is this, the 1940s? I’m not ruled by my knot. I’m not an animal,” Harry says, but he heads toward the door anyway. It’d be impolite not to. It’s clear he’s overstayed his welcome. 

Louis follows. His feet are bare and Harry catches a glimpse of the triangle tattoo. For all his pretenses, Louis is really very brave, Harry realizes. “I believe that. If you were ruled by your hormones, you’d probably have made me a better apology breakfast.” 

Harry stops in the doorway to flick him off. 

Louis tuts. “Not very professional,” he says. 

He’s right, of course. This whole morning has been… an indiscretion. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells him. 

“Make it up to me,” Louis says. He’s tucking his chin again. “Help me plan the most epic album release of all time.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees. “I can do that.” 

But he doesn’t know if that’s true. He can only hope. 

~

Tumblr is wild. 

Harry had been avoiding it the past eighteen hours, afraid of seeing himself in some of the pics from Nick and Louis’ luncheon. He shouldn’t’ve worried. Though the pap has caught the back and side of his head in several shots, no one seems to care. 

Team Tommo is too busy flipping out about Nick and Louis. 

The bloggers convinced that Louis is an O are livid. Their careful (and mostly accurate) research seems to indicate Louis _hates_ As, avoiding spending time with them publicly at all costs. They are convinced that Louis had been forced into the outing as a publicity stunt to help Nick out with the release of his new clothing line. 

They’re not completely wrong. The timing of the outing had been good for Nick. 

However, they may be taking the whole ‘using Louis’ name and fan base’ thing a little far, in Harry’s professional opinion. It’s not like the press hasn’t helped Louis as well. And Harry can say firsthand that there was nothing ‘forced’ about the encounter from either end. 

Another smaller core of bloggers, those who think Louis is an A, are over the moon. They’re convinced that Nick is using him as well, _for his knot._ (Harry’s not sure why Nick’s always the bad guy. As far as he can tell, Louis’ equally culpable.) 

For the most part these latter bloggers are not on his dashboard, so he forces himself to spend some time in the Tomlinshaw tag. A picture of Louis, face tipped up to Nick, grinning so hard that his eyes have turned to slits. A picture of Nick, reaching backward to grab Louis’ forearm and pull him into the waiting vehicle. A short video in which Nick clearly and loudly shouts something filthy about Louis’ ass, a comment met with the tinkling of Louis’ laughter. 

Each of these images is followed by an array of excited tags: #THEY LOVE EACH OTHER and #NOW KISS and #THEY TOTALLY WANT EACH OTHER and #GOD HOW BIG ARE THEIR KNOTS RIGHT NOW?!

Harry pushes out a harsh breath. He wouldn’t call it a growl, but his sister probably would. 

Louis and Nick are not involved, not like that. Again, the urge to drop anonymous messages in the inboxes of popular bloggers makes Harry’s fingers itch. He even drafts one: 

_I know this sounds shady. And maybe it is. But I can assure you that Louis and Nick are just good friends. If that._

He deletes the ask and back-buttons. He’s allowed to leave asks, but only officially sanctioned ones from the blocked servers at work. Leaving a note like that would be a major breach of contract. More unprofessional than the omelets he and Louis had shared. Harry knows better. 

It’s not like anyone would believe he had any kind of inside information anyway. He’d probably only get himself blocked. 

He closes out of his app. He needs to stop kidding himself about this type of scrolling being research. It’s not. And right now it’s only making him angry, filling his head with too many ‘what if’s that he knows have no merit. 

He needs to work on a PR strategy and for that, he needs something more tangible. He needs hard data. 

He opens the latest research from the label. He scrolls down the PDF and then back up. The words and numbers blurring into photos of Nick and Louis laughing together. 

Harry blinks. He can usually analyse data in his sleep. Something’s wrong. 

He needs to clear his head. He needs to catch up on Niall Horan’s performance at today’s match. In the few photos, Harry’d passed over on his dash, Niall’d been smiling. Maybe he’d won.

~

Harry wakes up the following morning to two texts from Louis, an emoji of an egg and in a frying pan followed by, _how’s the plan coming? How do the numbers look?_

Harry stares at the messages for a long minute. Finally he replies with a simple, _good._

Because the data does look good. 

Several female Omegas have come out in television and film over the last twenty years. One or two Olos, even. The ones who came out before 2006 all struggled to find work a few years after their initial coming out, at least in anything other than stereotypical Omega typecasts. But they _were_ all able to find something.

And, more promising, since 2011, the media surrounding out Os has been almost completely positive and while most have faced some backlash from more conservative directors and fans, many have made it out clean and on top. 

Harry is confident Louis can do the same in music. 

Data from surveys around the world shows that his demographic market is actually one of the most receptive to male Omegas. His target audience also seems to take great personal pride in famous Os who break out of their traditional roles, owning their courage and feeding off it. 

Harry’s also run the numbers on the PR firms who’d helped these clients out of the closet. They’re pretty promising. If Shady Lane can pull this off with Louis, they may even find themselves working with other high-profile closeted Omegas ready to come out. 

(He’s argued with Max on a similar point before, with Nick particularly. Max hadn’t been willing to concede that there _were_ other Alas in the entertainment industry, let alone any interested in coming out to the public. Max’d already been proven wrong by several _new_ clients, thank you very much.) 

Still, it’ll be a tough sell and Harry’s preparing himself for the worst, the possibility that he might not only be laughed out of the room, but also out of a job. 

~

They’d wanted to keep the meeting small. Emma who’s the head of Louis’ PR team, Max and Jake, Jim (Simon’s lackey from the label), Harry, and Louis himself. 

Emma’s spinning a flash drive between her fingers. Her lipstick is bright red and before her sits a plate of perfectly shaped pink macaroons. She’s set to roll out the numbers for the previously agreed upon plan, with the long-term, possibly Omega girlfriend and eventual fiancé. The shy part of Harry, the part of himself that wishes he could spend more time in the library and less with actual humans, the part of himself that was appalled to realize that he was an Alpha, just like his father- that part of him hopes she goes first, everyone agrees her plan is perfect, and that’s the end of it. That part of him hopes that he’s not even called on to share his findings. 

Another part of him, the part that’s proud of his work with his dad’s data, that loves fucking telling people what’s bullshit about the way the world thinks about presentation and sexual orientation and gender, that part of him is excited, eager even. 

That’s the part of him that wins out, and it’s a good thing. 

Louis responds to Emma’s plan (and delicious treats) with a terse ‘thanks’ and then turns to frown at Harry, arms crossed, over his chest. “You’re the Sexpert, right? Do you have any other ideas?” 

Harry takes a deep breath. That’s the way they’re going to play it then, as though they hadn’t spoken about this yet, as though Harry’s coming out of nowhere. 

Harry knows he’s an odd duck. He can do ‘out of nowhere.’ He doesn’t have baked goods, but he does have data. He looks down at his notes, takes a breath, and begins. 

“I think that with Louis’ demographic, we’d do best to really keep them guessing about his sexual orientation and presentation. From the research I’ve done, a good percentage of his fan base is heavily invested in the mystery of his personal life. For many fans, Louis’ romantic life is either a game they can win, particularly given Louis’ willingness to date fans, or a puzzle they’d love to be able to figure out. They are ‘engaged’ and engaged fans buy records. Engaged fans talk to their friends and families, and so their friends and families begin to buy records. Engaged fans purchase tickets to multiple concerts, often springing for a VIP section or a meet-and-greet. Engaged fans eat up the books about Louis, as well as his other merch. I don’t think the long-term, very serious girlfriend angle would keep these fans engaged to the same degree, even taking into account their aging up.” 

Jake nods, fingering his glasses which lay on the table in front of him. He’s the one who’d hired Harry and in their first meeting he told Harry he expected quality analysis, minus the bullshiting and minus the nicities. Harry’s not being paid to agree with the label or management or even the rest of the PR team. Harry’s research is meant to be cutting edge, better in line with young people’s perceptions than anyone else in the field. 

After watching several botched coming outs and hearing various celebrities spew prejudiced and bigoted remarks time and time again, especially when they were part of a marginalized group, when they should _know better_ , Harry’d been over the moon to be told he wasn’t expected to play along. 

That is until he realized that just because he was allowed, perhaps even expected, to disagree, that didn’t mean that anyone was likely to take his suggestions seriously, not even Jake. 

“Love it,” Jake says, adjusting his specs and smiling in Harry’s direction. Harry relaxes. This time Jake’s agreement isn’t luck; Harry’s analysis had been unequivocally correct. 

“How’s it different from what we’re doing now?” Max asks, as he picks a piece of lint off of his suit. He’s not bought in and neither is Jim from the label. Jim from the label is openly scowling at Harry and Harry wonders if Jim from the label already had an Omega fiancé picked out for Louis. Probably. 

“Well,” Harry says. He looks down at his thumb nail and squashes the urge to bite at it. “From what I can tell, previous campaigns have worked pretty hard to discredit people with the opinion that Louis is anything but a Beta. I mean, I know you have ways of keeping a fair number of, um, those type of fans engaged and spending money, but it’s always been a tightrope walk.” 

“Well,” Jim replies, mimicking Harry’s slow speech. “We don’t want Louis’ actual identity to get out. Having it confirmed would be a disaster.” Jim nods at Louis. “No offense. I know we’ve spoken about it, though. You don’t want that either, do you?” 

Louis drums his fingers on the table and doesn’t meet Jim’s eye. “I want to hear more from Harry. What would encouraging speculation actually look like? Would we hint that I’m an Omega?” 

Louis final words sizzle through the room. Harry remembers hearing Louis say this before. _I’m an Omega_. The words had echoed through the large, quiet kitchen. Now, as then, they seem almost perverse. 

People don’t usually name their presentation aloud, especially not Omegas. 

Harry doesn’t have patience for that kind of convention, though, and so he’s grateful for Louis’ bluntness. 

He looks directly at Louis and shrugs. “I think we’d hint that, yeah. See how it’s received. We don’t have to push it very far at first. Maybe we have you papped in a turtleneck or scarf. You mention your sympathy toward O issues and O fans in an interview or two. After a couple weeks, we can evaluate both how you’re feeling about it and the extent of the backlash.” 

Jim’s eyes have narrowed. He’s watching Louis, not Harry. Louis isn’t returning Jim’s gaze. His eyes are downcast and he shifts in his seat, tugging at the hem of his red vest and pursing his lips. 

No one says a word, so Harry continues. “And I think Louis should date an Alpha.” 

Jim shakes his head. “Not gonna work. We’ve already spoken with Gomez’s people. She’s Lou’s girl this season, no way around it. They both have albums coming out- amazing promo for both of them. And she won’t make Louis look small or dainty. The papers are all but signed.” 

Selena Gomez. She’d come up in his research. Heavily suspected by media and fans to be an O, with big eyes, round cheeks, a year or two younger than Louis, she’d make him look tough. 

“I thought the idea was to soften Louis’ image,” Harry says.

Jim shrugs. “Caring for an O makes a person soft. Commitment polls favorably with his target demographic. He can show how kind and generous he is.” 

“Even when it takes him permanently off the market?” Harry asks. “And remember, Gomez isn’t a fan and she isn’t thought of as a Beta. While Louis may look like a hero and gentlemen dating her, he _will not look attainable_.” 

“He won’t look attainable when he’s been claimed by an Alpha either, Styles,” Jim bites back. 

“Won’t dating Gomez make me practically indistinguishable from Zayn? Didn’t Zayn actually _date_ Gomez during his last album launch? I’m not interested in looking like I’m riding his coattails _and_ taking his leftovers.” 

Louis’ chin is set and his eyes are hard. His voice has a don’t-fuck-me-over edge to it. Despite his small frame and delicate features, no one seeing him like this would suspect him to be an O. 

“We’d make it look like you stole her from him. His people are on board for it, too,” Jim explains. 

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “I would never have thought I’d say this, but I like Styles’ plan better. I think it’s got more selling power.” 

Jim heaves a sigh and shakes his head. “Right. Well, I’ll have to talk it over with the people at the label. I can see your point, but I’m not sure the higher-ups will want to take the risk.” He looks at Jake and Max. Whispers hiss back and forth between them, but as silence settles over the rest of the room they quiet and look to Jim. 

Jim says, “Jake and Max, you willing to go ahead with Styles’ suggestion? It seems to have come out of nowhere.” 

Max nods sharply at Jake who says, “Yeah, we are. Obviously, both the label and Louis could call it to a halt at any point.” 

“Obviously,” Harry agrees. He can’t help himself. He meets Louis’ gaze and winks. Louis’ eyes sparkle back at him as he lets loose a small smile. 


	2. Chapter 2

Louis remains at the table after everyone else has left the boardroom. They agreed- Emma and the label and Jake and Max- they all agreed that he should ‘test the waters.’ That’s what Emma had called it.

Louis imagines sticking his toe into a pool on a chilly fall afternoon and shivers.

Still, that seems a lot less risky than voicing an opinion on Os, a lot safer than dating an A who will make him look small and vulnerable. The phrase ‘testing the waters’ hides the fact that each inch he slides deeper in could be the one that puts him all the way under, spinning the story out of his control.

He closes his eyes and puts his forehead to the table.

“Hey.” Harry’s voice comes from the doorway behind him. “There’s another meeting in here in ten minutes. Want to grab a coffee?”

Louis turns to look at him. Sunlight from the floor length windows in the hallway behind him outlines his figure in a glowing halo. His face is completely in shadow, but he doesn’t look intimidating, not for an Alpha. Louis nods. “Sure.”

They walk to the lifts in silence. When they step inside, Louis thinks, _coconut._ Harry presses the button for the ground floor and leads the way out of the building and onto the street.

Louis can still smell him, even once they’re out on the street, and he finds that oddly comforting, to know someone’s with him in the mass of bodies and noise.

Harry stops to open the door of a coffee shop. Inside, it’s all wood and chrome and skinny men wearing flannel and denim and carrying suede shoulder bags. Louis remembers suddenly that this label office is just down the street from a university.

“This your kind of place?” Louis asks. “You dress in tweed on the weekends, you nerd?”

Of course it is; Harry _is_ a nerd. After seeing him just now in a suit at the head of boardroom table, Louis’d forgotten.

“It was close.” Harry bites back a smile. “But yeah, I am a nerd.”

Louis can’t make heads or tails of the menu. It looks as though the place is serving exotic countries, not espresso drinks. To Harry, he says, “I want something with chocolate that will keep me awake for at least five more hours.”

Then he shakes his head. He doesn’t need Harry to order for him. He can just as well tell that to the gangly man with the bun behind the register. The meeting has put him out of sorts.

But Harry’s already speaking to the man, telling him he wants two mocha lattes, to go, and pulling out his wallet to pay.

Louis places a hand on his arm. It’s warm despite the shop’s heavy air conditioning. “I can get my own.”

Harry hands the other man a bill. “Next time,” he says, turning back to Louis.

Louis rolls his eyes. “There won’t be a next time.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He’s not looking at Louis anymore. His eyes are caught on something beyond him. Then Louis hears it. The giggling.

 _Shit._ He should not have left the building without David. If pictures of this little excursion show up, he’s never going to hear the end of it from Emma or Liam.

“They’re not gonna come over here, I don’t think,” Harry whispers. “Don’t look behind you and the best they’ll have is a blurry shot of your back.”

Harry’s assessed the situation quickly and comfortably and Louis’ both grateful and curious. “You’re experienced with this sort of thing? At the luncheon with Nick you said you rarely go on outings with clients.”

A smile plays at Harry’s lips, as he reaches for their drinks over the counter. “Not official outings,” he tells Louis, nodding to the door. “Quick and keep your head down.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Not official outings?” Louis asks once they’re on the street, out of sight of the fans.

“I go out with Nick all the time. I’ve learned to avoid being spotted,” Harry explains, barreling forward through the crowd. Louis has to run to keep up with his long strides, thinking all the while about Harry and Nick ‘going out’ together ‘all the time.’

Back inside the lobby at the label’s office, Harry says, “What’s next on your schedule? Do you have someone coming to pick you up?”

Louis takes a breath. “There’s a lounge on the second floor. I’m supposed to wait there until David calls to pick me up.” Louis hasn’t checked his phone since before the meeting. David might have already called. But for some reason he can’t name, Louis isn’t ready to let Harry out of his sight, not yet.

The lounge is small, but cool and comfortably decorated with floor lamps and a large abstract painting, a splash of brown at its center, as though a someone had upended a cup of coffee unto the canvas. On a tall bar at one end of the room sit a fancy espresso maker and tray of fruit. He and Harry really shouldn’t have gone out.

Louis walks over to the bar and grabs an apple, tossing it into the air.

Reclining in the leather couch on the other side of the room, Harry says, “You’re having second thoughts. There’s still time to back out. You’re driving the bus, here. You can stop it at any time.”

Louis thinks about throwing the piece of fruit at Harry’s head. “I’m not and I couldn’t.”

“In this case, you could. They’d be overjoyed for you to pull back on this plan. One word and it’s over,” Harry assures him.

Louis’ not so sure. This isn’t the first time the team has plucked up one of his PR ideas and run away with it. They’ve often taken a small suggestion way too far, the combined organization of his label and management and PR having a kind of impossible momentum that no one, not Louis or anyone else, can control.

Harry would’ve seen the like, but then, it wouldn’t have the same impact on his life as on Louis’.

Louis contemplates how to respond. He still feels constantly off balance with Harry, but no longer in a frightening way. Harry’s long arms are splayed out on the back of the couch. Alphas take up so much space.

“I’m just nervous, I suppose. Lots of people hate Os, or at least, they don’t respect them, you know? Or they want them to behave a certain way? Especially male Os. I don’t know what’s gonna really sell with this image. It’s all new.” Louis sits down in an uncomfortable antique chair beside the bar. He’s facing Harry, but the distance of the room separates them.

“You’re an incredible vocalist and so charming. Just be you.” Harry beams at him, shoulders relaxed, as if he’s solved all Louis’ problems.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Sure, okay,” he agrees, as if it’s that easy.

Harry leans forward, elbows on knees. “Listen, Emma and I will put together a detailed plan. Baby steps. Every move will be carefully thought out. And you’ll have full veto power.”

Louis stands and stretches. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him and has to fight the urge to bare his neck.

“I’m on board for it if you really think it’s going to put me over Zayn. Fucking asshole.”

“You really hate him?” Harry asks. “His music isn’t so different from yours and he seems nice enough to me.”

“You’re an Alpha,” Louis tells him. Of course, Harry wouldn’t see through Zayn’s bullshit, wouldn’t see that he has _no place_ acting like the world is against him, like _he’s_ somehow misunderstood.

“According to all the research I’ve done, we can make this work for you. Especially if Zayn’s the asshole you think he is.” Harry’s still leaning forward and his dimples are out now. His entire focus is on Louis.

“Oh, he is,” Louis says. “And not a calculating asshole.”

“Not like you, then?”

Louis nods. “No, not like me.”

A curl rests loose against Harry’s cheek and Louis wants to tuck it back. Or tug it. He wonders whether it is as smooth as it looks or if the shine of it is a trick of the light.

“You’re a good guy,” Harry says, rising. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Louis sighs and looks away. Harry doesn’t understand. Louis’ good at what he does, yeah, and he usually tries to do the best he can, but he’s not _a good guy_. He’s just really good at looking good and someday his fans will realize that and tire of him, move on to someone with a little more substance. As much as he hates to admit it, they’ll move on to someone like Zayn.

He pulls out his phone. David’s left him three messages.

“I have to head out,” he tells Harry.

“Okay.” Harry’s close, standing beside Louis’ chair, one arm folded the across his middle, while the other reaches up to stroke his chin. He’s been watching Louis check his phone.

It won’t be long until he sees right through him.

~

Piano notes twinkle through the air, high and light and happy, and Louis can imagine a dark crowd dotted with cell phones and lighters cooing along. He drums his fingertips against the hardwood floor beside him, and then dances them over to tangle in the fringe of the Persian rug he’s laid out at upon.

“You’re not listening,” Liam complains. “I thought you wanted to play around with a ballad for the album.”

Louis hoists himself up onto his elbows. He likes writing here in Liam’s living room better than anywhere else. His floor to ceiling windows create the illusion that no barrier exists between the woods and the inside of Liam’s home. Louis finds his imagination skipping, hopping, and jumping along dirt trails between thick-trunked trees, chasing after colorful birds, all on the other side of the glass.

The scenery makes for good poetry.

“Do you know about the PR plan for this album?” Louis asks. Emma and Liam are in contact, he knows, but how much she tells Liam and how often, is unclear to him.

“Emma told me you scrapped the engagement bit, that I should focus on new love and self-love.”

“Self-love?” Louis laughs. “I’m not sure I could sing a self-esteem power ballad with a straight face.”

“The fans would love it, Louis. I think that’s the way we should go. Definitely. Which I already said, if you’d been listening. Want me to play it for you once more?”

He starts up again without waiting for Louis’ answer, so Louis talks over the notes. “No. Listen. There’s more to it than my love interest.”

Liam’s playing tapers off. “What?”

Louis collapses back onto the ground and shuts his eyes.

“They’re ‘testing the waters’ for a coming out.” The room brightens behind Louis’ eyelids. The sun must’ve reappeared from behind a cloud.

“Wow,” Liam says.

The piano bench scratches against the wood floor. Liam’s footsteps pat across the room and Louis’ face is in shadow again for a brief moment before he feels Liam’s warmth beside him.

“You didn’t ask for that, did you? I didn’t think you wanted that.” Liam’s voice is soft, confused.

“No,” Louis says and then stops. He thinks of the omelets he’d shared with Harry. He thinks of himself asking Harry to put together the plan and to share it with his team. “Actually, yes. I did ask for it. It’s a good publicity strategy. I’ll blow Zayn out of water. I’ll drown in sales and he’ll just plain drown. Like he deserves.”

Liam coughs. Liam likes Zayn, has worked with him on a few songs, even. Louis doesn’t care. He’s won’t be forced to hold back his opinion, not with his best friend, one of the very few people with whom he can be totally honest.

“What does your mum think?” Liam whispers. Liam’s never met Louis’ mum. No one from this life has. He tells stories about her, makes sure his fans know how much he loves her, but is adamant about her desire for privacy. And she does desire privacy. She was the one who told _him_ that it would be bad business for people to find out that he’s the son of an Omega. People might start to ask questions, she’d said. Although now, that’s kind of the point.

The time may come soon to formally introduce his family to the public.

He exhales, pushing the thought aside.

“I haven’t told my mum.” He doesn’t plan to either, not until the ball is already rolling. He thinks she might try to roll it back.

She had a rough time of it, all those years back, when she tried to break into the industry.

“It seems really risky,” Liam says. He’s lying perfectly still. How does he _do_ that?

“Yeah, that’s why we’re just testing the waters,” Louis says. “They’ve told me I can back out any time.”

Liam snorts. “Yeah, right. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Louis hums. He knows Liam’s right. He’s not in control at all, not this time. But for once, he thinks letting someone else (Harry) take charge might be worth the risks.

“I thought you’d refused to let them put the Sexpert on your team.” He uses Louis’ nickname for Harry, probably because he doesn’t know Harry’s name. And why would he? He’s never had reason to read _Presentation Nightmares_ or look into either Styles’ research on the lesser known presentations and sexual orientations. Liam’s a red-blooded, woman-loving Beta.

“He’s alright,” Louis says. “A knothead, yeah, but a smart one.”

“High praise.” Liam elbows him. “From you.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Outside the window, the groan of a tree frog echoes through the woods.

“You’re gonna do this? Like you wrote in the song? Gonna take your life into your own hands?”

Louis turns his head so that he can look Liam in the eyes. “I’ve _always_ had my life in my own hands.”

Liam looks away immediately, gaze suddenly tight to the ceiling. “Sorry, mate, but I don’t think you have.”

#

Lola stands at the edge of the pool, fingers bunched in the pink, sparkly tulle at her waist.

“You’ll ruin your new outfit if you go in like that.” Amelia sounds tired. She looks tired, too, bags under her eyes, pale beneath her tan, a heaviness to her limbs that Harry hasn’t seen since the painful, wonderful first months of Lola’s life.

“You’re not well,” Harry says.

Amelia tilts her head. Her eyes stay on Lola who is leaning over to dip her fingers in the pool. “My publisher wants the book finished, thinks maybe I should go on a speaking tour. He says that it’s safe for an O to do something like that these days, even with a topic like single-parenting. But it’d be so nerve-wracking to leave Lola behind. I’m trying to get her into this preschool my friend Becky recommended. Seems great, super liberal. Like, Becky’s an Olo and she and her wife feel really safe there. I’m not sure they’ll let her in, though.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Dad. Obviously, the Director of the school knows who he is. Said that if Lola attends, I have to make sure that Dad never shows up, not to the holiday recitals or spring plays or her graduations or anything.” Amelia brings a perfectly manicured thumb up to her mouth, but she doesn’t bite it.

“What’s the problem? I didn’t know you two talked. I thought you thought he treated Lola like a science experiment and had cut him out of your life.”

Lola tries to seat a rainbow teddy bear onto a pool noodle, but it keeps falling into the water.

“I have, but what if things change? What if he gets sick or something?”

Harry brings his thumb to his mouth and he _does_ bite at it. “It’s strange. Like, what’s Dad gonna do? He’s not aggressive or anything. He’s not going to force read them his book. He doesn’t even believe most of that shit anymore.”

“Lola, your uncle just bought you that bear and that tutu, let’s not ruin them straight away.” Lola pulls the bear out of the water and whips around, hiding it behind her back. “I thought you wanted to swim in Harry’s pool, honey?”

The pool is one of the best amenities in his building, one of the reasons he’d decided to rent this particular flat. He doesn’t like to swim, but he knew it would attract his sister and niece over to see him more often.

Lola begins to strip off her clothes. Harry thinks she’s very coordinated for three- and- a- half. A genius, probably.

“All he’d have to do to get rid of this awful notoriety is apologize,” Amelia reasons.

Her voice holds a pleading quality to it. Harry’s told his dad the same thing more than once.

“He wants to do it right. Publish a book with his more recent research. Lay it all out at once so that no one’s confused about where he stands.” Harry hates himself for saying it. Last time he’d heard the explanation, then from his father’s lips, he’d shouted it down. _What a load of bullshit_.

His dad is a coward, no way around it.

“I’m going to sign her up for the school.” Amelia beckons the girl to come closer. She sees the pink floaties her mum’s holding out and rushes toward them, hair bobbing against her shoulders. Lola’s blond, like her mother was as a child, with the thick, curly hair both Styles siblings had inherited from their father. “She needs people who’ll be empathetic, role models, if…”

Amelia trails off. For all the dinners they’d spent as children listening to their father chatter on about presentation, Amelia’s still painfully uncomfortable with the topic.

She snaps a wing to each of Lola’s arms.

“I’m naked,” Lola announces.

Harry pinches her shoulder. He’s glad Amelia isn’t raising her to be a prude, ashamed of her body. Many O’s do so with their daughters and understandably, but the research he’s done shows that it probably isn’t healthy for them in the end.

Once Lola’s sat on a step, bottom submerged, splashing in the water, he says to Amelia, “I’m working with an O.”

Her head whips toward him. “At the university with Dad? What is it you do again?”

Harry frowns. “No. My grant there ran out.” Nearly three and a half years ago, now. “I thought I told you. I’m doing consulting for a firm.”

Amelia nods. “Ah, that’s right,” she laughs. “Consulting for a firm. I see.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I really can’t say much more than that, under contract.” He probably could. Amelia’s good with secrets. But he prefers to keep his work life and his family life separate, something his father was never quite able to do.

“Is this really the first time you’ve had to work with an O, aside from me, I mean? How’s it going from your end of it?”

Harry huffs out a breath. “I don’t know quite how to relate. It’s different. I suppose I did some work with Os at uni, but nothing like this.”

Amelia chuckles. “Oh, I see how it is. Is she that hot? Got you all knotted up?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Harry feels his cheeks heat, as his temper rises. Amelia’s one of the few people who know just how to pique it.

Amelia nods. “Of course, it isn’t. But be careful. That’s always what an O is gonna think. I mean, it _is_ what most Alphas would mean, after all.”

“I just- I hadn’t realized how different things were for Os. I’m sitting down to put together my notes last night- you know, I’m supposed to help with gender and presentation issues- but basically, all I know is that I don’t know much. Even with all the research I’ve done, I don’t have any real insights into the O experience, you know?”

Amelia lifts her thumb to her mouth again and this time she takes it between her teeth, making at face at the taste of the varnish. “You don’t. That’s a good thing to know and to admit. As an Alpha, you’ve never been in heat. You’ve never been treated _by your own mother_ like you’re carrying around some terrible secret, like there’s a part of you that somehow will always make you both vulnerable and dangerous at the same time. As an Alpha, you’ve never been stared at and poked at by doctors who want to help you ‘fix’ your ‘symptoms.’ You have no idea what any O has been through or what her life is like.”

Harry reaches out and touches her hand. “I’m sorry for what Dad-“

Amelia cuts him off. “Sorry doesn’t really cut it. Sorry doesn’t change shit. Sorry won’t make the world safer for Lola.”

“She might be an A like me,” Harry reasons.

“She might,” Amelia agrees. “And she might not.” Amelia’s phone buzzes on the table and she glances at it. “My publishing agent.”

Harry grins. He’s so proud of her. Their mum (and everyone else) had said she wouldn’t amount to anything, especially after getting pregnant at twenty years old by an unknown- she’d been too drunk to remember a scent- and keeping the child to raise as an unbonded Omega.

He wanders away, as she answers, tone turning professional and bright. He sits beside Lola, who’s migrated another step down into the pool. The water is up to her shoulders and her arms, tied up with the floaties, sit atop it. She grins up at Harry.

“I should join you.”

Lola looks him up and down, brown eyes wide. “You don’t want to ruin your clothes,” she says, mimicking her mum’s earlier statement. Harry’s wearing black basketball shorts and an old tank top, not traditional swimming attire, but nothing he’d mind soaking with chlorine.He puts his feet into the pool.

“Uncle Harry.” Lola folds her arms across her bare chest. “Don’t be naughty.”

He walks his feet down to the second and then the third step.

Lola’s expression is one of exaggerated alarm, but underneath that is pure glee. “You are going to be put in time out,” Lola tells him, voice matter of fact.

“You think?” Harry asks, scooting his bottom over the ledge and into the water.

Lola shrieks and splashes him. “Uncle Harry! No!”

He reaches for her and pulls her with him, off the steps and further into the pool.

Above them, he hears Amelia chuckling. When he looks up at her, she’s shaking her head. “You’re such an A, big brother, _such an A._ ”

“Such an A,” Lola choruses, giggling and splashing.

~

Harry’s up all night working on The Plan, but it’s just like he’d told Amelia. This is the most complicated, most sensational coming out he will ever have orchestrated and he doesn’t know _shit_ about the man in question.

Despite his earlier promise to _stop_ using his personal tumblr for professional research, Harry spends a couple of hours that evening digging through ‘Omega!Louis’ blogs. He’s curious what other Os may have picked up on about Louis that Harry, as an A, may have missed. There’s a lot, turns out. On top of typical Omega gestures, until recently Louis had been silent concerning his family background, particularly his parents’ relationship and presentations. He’d also seemed reticent to discuss puberty and his early relationships. These could be explained away, of course, but in context they help fill out the picture of Louis as an O.

According to the Omegas, Louis has revealed a whole list of smaller clues as well, much more convincing, in their opinion, than anything else:

\- Mistrust of Alphas

\- Sensitivity to smells

\- Appreciation of out Os and suspected male Os like Freddie Mercury

\- (Debatable) References to important O literature and study

\- Triangle tattoo

\- MISTRUST OF ALPHAS

The last seems to be a huge red flag in the opinion of many bloggers and it surprises Harry. He’d thought Omegas and Betas alike felt deeply suspicious of Alphas. In fact, in his experience, Betas are cattier, often acting out in petty or bitter ways against Alpha colleagues or peers. He’s never heard of such behavior from Os, excluding Louis, of course.

Equally curious, Harry doesn’t see anything about heats. From his research he knows that most Omega’s have fairly regular heats. On average, they hit once every three to four months and last only a day or two. While that means the range of ‘regular’ is wide, in most of the interviews he’s read and conducted, Os claim that they can predict them within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, every single time. During these times, they go into isolation. If they are lucky, their jobs provide accommodations for the time off, but that’s still relatively unusual.

Even digging deep, Harry can’t find a single mention of Louis’ heats or lack thereof by any blogger that claims to be an O. Some of the people who fight with these bloggers, who try to argue them down from the point, bring up the rather striking fact that Louis does _not_ drop out of the public eye at regular intervals. When this sort drops into the ask of an O blog, they are universally met with anger and the block button.

Harry knows this doesn’t mean anything. Modern suppressants keep the worst heat symptoms at bay relatively effectively. Registered O’s can have access to these drugs, no questions asked, as soon as they’ve had their first heat.

The drugs aren’t perfect though. They don’t suppress arousal or the wet, sweet smelling substance that accompanies it. And, around the time of a heat, most Os report experiencing mild fever symptoms and increased irritability and sensuality. As far as any of the super fans have seen, Louis has never displayed any of these symptoms.

Harry knows that’s not quite true. He’d smelled Louis in the club. He closes his eyes and brings up the memory of Louis’ ass, rubbing rhythmically against his groin. Heat blossoms low in his belly.

He bites his lip. Hard. Those thoughts are dangerous, unprofessional.

He closes out of his current tab, disappearing a website detailing various experimental suppressants and their reported side effects. Instead, he opens an interview of Niall. He’s attending the grand opening of a new golf resort outside of Las Vegas and his nose is very, _very_ sunburnt.

“Oh no, Niall,” Harry coos. “When will you learn.”

Harry drops a comment on the video. _Remember the SPF. You don’t deserve cancer._

At least he’d performed well in the round he’d played, well under par.

Harry opens another interview and lays back against the brown leather of his couch, work slipping from his mind.

All the Louis business can wait until tomorrow, when he’ll have the opportunity to talk to Louis in person.

#

“Harry Styles,” Louis answers, voice raspy and slow. He closes his eyes and waits for Harry to reply.

Louis’d just texted him as he’s taken to doing every morning at six thirty sharp (a pig emoji today). He finds the connection centers him, a pleasant little thrill shooting down his spine as he hits send and then downs his suppressant.

This morning he’d rolled right back over for a lie in. A lie in that’s been interrupted.

“Um, hi, Louis. Sorry for calling so early. I’ve checked in with Emma, and she says you’re free to meet this afternoon, but I wanted to check-in with you as well, make sure you didn’t have any, um, personal plans. Seemed like the polite thing to do. Once I scheduled a meeting like that with a client and then he-“

“Styles,” Louis cuts him off. Louis is still in bed, hasn’t had a cup of tea yet. “We can meet this afternoon. It’s fine. Me, you, and Emma, then? At Shady Lane?”

“Just me and you,” Harry says.

Louis thinks about their brunch, about how he can still smell coconut lingering in the air of his kitchen, about how he’d told Irma to leave off cleaning it for a few days, afraid she’d wash the scent away. “Why?”

“I realized that I don’t know much about, like, _you_ , as an O. I thought we should talk through some things before I roll out a plan to the whole team for approval.” Louis wonders how much it’s costing Harry to admit that he doesn’t know something. He wants to ask, to tease, but he doesn’t.

“Okay, is there a room we can meet at your office?”

Harry hums and then asks, “What if we went out to coffee shop or something?”

“Are you kidding?” Louis asks, to which Harry immediately replies, “No.”

“It’s not private enough. This is sensitive stuff, Harry,” Louis says.

The line is silent and Louis can all but hear Harry tapping his chin, deep in thought.

“What about your home? That’s private,” Harry suggests.

Louis chokes out a laugh, opening and closing his eyes. “You, an unbonded Alpha, did not just invite yourself to unbonded Omega’s home, did you, you dog?”

“Lou.” Harry drops the nickname easily. He’s clearly feeling overly familiar. “I’ve been there before, alone. It’s not like that between us.”

Louis’ stomach drops at the last statement. Of course, Harry’s right. Louis thinks again of the lingering scent of coconut, how it might still be there when he gets up to make his breakfast in a few minutes.

“I think the Shady Lane offices would be better. Is there really no way you could grab us a private room? Or maybe we could go to yours?”

“No,” Harry replies, sharply. “I mean, my place is a mess. Can’t think there. Come to Shady Lane at 3. I’ll see what I can do about a meeting room. If nothing else, we can use my office.”

“You have an office? What the hell. That’s perfect. Why don’t we just meet there?”

“I don’t-“ Harry starts. “I’ll figure something out. See you later.”

“You’re a weirdo,” Louis tells him. “See you.”

~

“Can’t we turn on a light?” Louis asks, arranging himself on the dark leather couch in the corner of Harry’s office. The room doesn’t have any windows or overhead lights.

Actually, Harry hasn’t switched on any of the half dozen lamps decorating the room, either. The only light is coming from an array of candles dotting his desk and his bookshelf and coffee table.

“I think it’s peaceful in here,” Harry explains. “The fluorescents in the common spaces give me a headache.”

“It’s romantic, I suppose,” Louis tells him. “And relaxing. Like the spa or something.”

Coconut. The scent is strong in here and Louis wonders, for a moment, if perhaps Harry jerks off behind his desk sometimes, if that’s why he has a private office when most of the firm’s employees share an open workplace with no walls or cubicles.

As Harry situates himself opposite Louis, only a few small inches of leather between their knees, Louis asks, “How did you land yourself this little closet?”

“I think it’s quite nice,” Harry says, brow furrowed, glancing around.

“Cozy,” Louis says. He thinks it’s nice, too, but doesn’t want to dwell on the thought. “What makes you so special?”

“My work is very, you know, sensitive,” Harry explains. “And I focus better with a little privacy.”

Louis nods.

“So,” Harry says.

“So,” Louis repeats.

The room is quiet for a few moments and Louis’ eyes move over the distance separating their knees (again) and then up Harry’s thigh, resting on the soft bulge in his lap. He swallows and tries hard not to picture Harry’s knot.

“What did you want to meet about?” Louis asks, tearing his eyes upward.

“Oh,” Harry sounds surprised. “I just wanted to know a little bit more about you and, like, being an Omega.” He brings a thumb up to his mouth and bites at it.

“Okay,” Louis draws out the world. “What _specifically_ would be helpful? I’m not interested in being an experiment. You’re only privy to things that might help you with my PR campaign.”

Harry nods. “So a lot of the strategy will involve hints at the O-like bits of you. So I want to know those bits. And then another part of the campaign will involve lots of positive, sympathetic opinions about Os more generally. So I want to know about that, too. About in what ways you sympathize with other Os?”

Harry’s eyes stay on him. Harry’s eyes are always on him, it seems; since that first interview he’d watched with Nick, Harry’s eyes have barely left Louis. At first, it had unnerved him. And it still does, a bit. He doesn’t want to be looked at like a pile of cells in a petri dish under a microscope. He’s a whole person.

But if he’s honest, Harry doesn’t look at him quite like that. Harry’s gaze is curious, but also warm. Louis feels like Harry might see him exactly as he is, the whole of him, and, perhaps, that’s what has his stomach fluttering.

“What do you mean, ‘the O bits’ of me?” He has no idea how he’d separate that out from the rest of him.

Harry’s hand drops from his mouth and he shifts, moving his body a little closer to Louis’. “I mean, like, the stuff someone who wasn’t an O would have no idea about. Like heats and scents and, I don’t know, certain prejudices you’ve experienced. Maybe the expectations for mating and bonding?”

Louis looks down, pulling the long sleeves of his tee-shirt over his palms. He doesn’t quite know where to start. “I’ve never had a heat,” he admits.

Harry’s brows go up. “You what? How? And if you haven’t had a heat, how do you know you’re an Omega?”

Louis takes a shaky breath. He’s never talked about this with anyone aside from his various specialists. “When I entered into my first pre-heat, my mum took action right away, giving me some of her suppressants. She’d suspected I’d be an O and had been watching for it. She didn’t want me to go through that bullshit. Said it wasn’t something any fifteen year old should have to experience. I don’t think she wanted our neighbors or my friends or schoolmates to catch on, either. Actually, if suppressants were easier to get ahold of, I don’t think she would’ve even had me register. It’s a huge disadvantage in the entertainment industry, obviously, and we both already knew that’s where I was headed.”

“That seems irresponsible,” Harry murmurs. “Giving you some of her own drugs. What if they’d fucked you up?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “As if letting me go through a heat would have been so much safer.”

“It’s a biological process. People don’t _die_ from heats.” Harry sounds indignant. He’s right, of course. But that doesn’t make what Louis’ mum did wrong, either. She’d been trying to protect him. Louis wants to defend her, but doesn’t think it’d help the current situation. It doesn’t matter, anyway. What’s done is done.

“So you’ve never been off suppressants?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head.

“Do you think you’ll ever want to be?”

Louis tugs at the fabric of trousers. “I don’t see how that question is relevant to this PR strategy.”

Harry frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

They’re quiet for a moment and Louis decides he believes him. “You’re just curious, I know.”

Harry smiles. “I am.” He bites his lip and then sets it free, glistening. “So, on the topic of our strategy, what kinds of things have you been holding back? What parts of yourself have been too O to show people? I think that might be the place to start giving hints, you know?”

Louis shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer. He can’t think of anything he’s been holding back.

“Gestures? Turns of phrase? Causes you’d like to support?” Harry prompts.

Louis shakes his head. “I mean, I guess I’d like to drop the whole leering at women thing.”

Harry blinks at him.

“I mean, I don’t have to drop it. I just- I don’t like to be leered at and it’s not something that comes naturally to me.”

“The whole leering at women thing? There’s a leering at women _thing_?” Harry asks.

He sounds stunned. “You must be new,” Louis says, even though he knows that Harry is not.

Harry shakes his head. “I mean, I know that the team works with you to craft a very specific image and I know all kinds of false and often unethical stereotyping go into that work, but _a leering at women thing_?”

Louis shrugs. “So you think I can stop it?”

“I’ve never seen you do it, to be honest,” Harry replies. “But, yeah. That’ll definitely be part of the strategy I suggest to Emma.”

Louis watches the tea lights flicker, casting a halo onto the dark wood of Harry’s desk. The smell of vanilla is wafting through the room, mixing with coconut.

Harry clears his throat. “Anything else?”

“I mean, what else might hint to people that I’m an O? Should I date an A? You said that in the meeting.” He almost shudders. He’s not an Olo, but he’s also not met many As who’d impressed him or made him feel safe, no one he wants to be caught with under the spotlight. He meets Harry’s gaze.

“I think that’d be good. At least go on a few dates with one. You can interview a few girls beforehand, probably. See who you might feel most comfortable spending time with. This isn’t going to work if you can’t put on a smile or if you’re constantly pulling away from your supposed girlfriend.”

Louis nods. “That won’t be a problem.” And it won’t. He’s never had any difficulty feigning interest. He’s good at appearing romantically entangled; he should go into acting, probably.

Harry shoots him a half-smile. “I know you think that…”

“What are you trying to say?” Louis kicks at his ankle.

“I just, I’ve seen you pretend to be into a girl before, watched some videos of you and Eleanor. You’re really _not_ convincing. You can’t even hold hands properly.”

Louis makes a face. “Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I wasn’t trying.”

Harry laughs. “That, I believe.”

“With the right Alpha, I’d try,” Louis says and winks at him. Then, he thinks, _no, what the fuck._

Harry blinks at him and then shakes his head, as if to clear it. “What else? What about your family? What are they like? Might they be able to help with this? Obviously, your mum knows about you being an O, as in the story you told me earlier she…” Harry lets the sentence hang. His eyes are intent on Louis’ face. Louis thinks he might be genuinely curious.

“My mum’s always tried to stay out of my spotlight,” Louis replies.

Harry chews at his nail and doesn’t reply. Louis thinks he must be waiting for Louis to continue. Louis drums his fingers against the leather arm of the couch. “She’s an O, very typical in appearance, though her current husband’s a Beta. She didn’t really want anyone to ask questions about me.”

Harry nods. “She won’t do any appearances then? Does she have any public social media? I find it’s really helpful with public opinion when families are supportive of their children’s decisions to come out.”

“Um.” He thinks about the woman she’d been when he was a boy, when their lives had revolved around her career and not his. “She’d probably love to get a little attention. She was an actress, actually, in her younger years. She knows all about hiding your identity as an O. Wasn’t as easy after I was born, though, being unbonded as she was.”

“So you think she’d be willing to help out a little, maybe create a Twitter profile? Show up with you to an event or two? Do an in-depth interview?”

Harry does this sometimes, throws Louis more questions than he can consider at once.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” He plasters on a smile for Harry, but he doesn’t actually feel sure.

~

“Oh, _honey_.” His mum lays on the word. “You can’t be serious. They don’t really think you’ll _gain_ appeal by telling people, do they?”

Louis huffs out of a breath and listens to the static that echoes over the line. He says, “The world’s different than it was when you were coming up, mum.”

His mum laughs. “Not that different.”

“Mum. When you were a kid, O’s had to keep their necks covered and wear collars with tags that identified their Alpha. Like they were fucking pets, mum.” He remembers playing with hers as a little boy, flicking the metal and listening to it tinkle. At the time, she’d listed her father as her Alpha, even though the two hadn’t spoken in years. Louis had never met the man himself.

She stopped wearing them and he remembers that, too. He remembers asking her where they’d went, remembers her smile as she told him she’d thrown them out. She wouldn’t need them anymore. He knows now that must’ve been within weeks of his sixth birthday, when Parliament had rescinded all its “Leash Laws,” formally recognizing what most people had known for years, that Omegas were people, not property.

When Louis’d gone in to register as an Omega ten years later, the form still had a line for his ‘Alpha,’ but the clerk had assured him and his mum that he could leave it blank, if he’d prefer, which, of course, having no Alpha in his life at all at the time, he had.

“You’ll have to walk a very fine line,” his mum says.

“What line is that?” Louis asks. He knows what’s coming. She’s going to tell him what he needs to do to sell it. It’s what he’d been hoping Harry would tell him earlier in the day. His mum has always been better at this than his PR team, though, and now, he suspects, will be no different.

“You’re going to have to behave exactly as people want and expect an O to behave. Modest. Deferential to As. Coy. Small. A little bit flirtatious. But you’re also going to have to command respect, make sure that people continue to take you seriously.”

He knows she means it to sound impossible, but it doesn’t. He’s been watching her play that role perfectly for twenty-two years.

The line is quiet for a moment and Louis can hear the sound of his sister and step-dad talking in the background. It’s dinner time for them and he should let his mum go, but he still feels a little shaken up from his encounter with Harry and her voice is comforting, even over the phone.

“You working with that Styles boy?” She asks, reading his thoughts, as always.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “He’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” His mum tuts. “I loved his dad’s book. If he’s half as smart as his father, you’re in good hands.”

Louis laughs. She means it, too, is the odd thing. Most younger Os hate _Presentation Nightmares._ It’s filled with gross exaggerations and it perpetuates an array of damaging stereotypes (like the idea that Os need to be fucked so badly during their heats, that they’re happy to let total strangers or even Alphas they despise knot them). Louis is no exception. But he also knows that simply talking about gender and presentation at all had been groundbreaking when the book had first been published.

His mum said that to read stories of others like her, on the outside of normal, had changed her life.

~

Four days later, Jim and Emma take Louis to lunch. He’s already read through The Plan, which had been sent in an email three days after the meeting at the label’s office, so he’s not quite sure why they’re meeting again. The Plan seems straightforward. Step One) Louis dates an Alpha. Step Two) Louis’ mum gives an interview about how she’d been an unbonded O for most of Louis’ childhood. Step Three) Emma _hints_ at Louis’ presentation using Louis’ Twitter and Instagram. Step Four) The Team decides whether or not to formally come out.

Louis had replied an acknowledgement and received this meeting request in return.

Emma stands when Louis arrives at their booth, gesturing for him to take the inside seat. She’s wearing a suit and lipstick, dressier than the breezy summer vests she’s been favoring recently. Once she’s back in the booth, she straightens her shoulders, then crosses her legs. A moment later she uncrosses them.

She pushes a tin of brownies at Louis. “Thought you’d need some encouragement.”

Louis lifts the lid and pinches a bite of one. They’re perfect. Of course, they are. Emma shouldn’t be working for Shady Lane; she should be winning The Great British Bake Off.

Jim glances between them smirking, his posture relaxed, shoulders pressing up against the wooden seatback.

Emma doesn’t even bother ordering. Jim wants a steak, well done, and while they’re waiting for it, the tension in the booth builds.

Louis has no idea what’s happening and he wishes they would just get on with telling him.

“Your mum seems nice,” Emma says, dumping a packet of artificial sweetener into her diet Pepsi.

“She is nice,” Louis replies. “She’s happy to be asked to help.”

“Harry was quite brilliant to think of that interview, wasn’t he?” Emma stirs the mixture around with a knife.

“For an A.” Louis isn’t ready to let on that he might have a soft spot for the Sexpert.

“He said you told him you weren’t an Olo,” Jim replies mildly. Everything about Jim is mild, from his coffee brown hair, parted down the center, to his slightly scuffed tan boat shoes.

“I’m not,” Louis assures him. He thinks about Harry’s nose pressed to his neck. He’s not an Olo.

“Well, you’re going to have to stop insulting Alphas. That has to be part of this process. You’re not going to go anywhere if you keep shit-talking your fellow scenters and potential future bondmates.”

“I don’t know,” Emma says, voice sharp. “It seems to me that this is something that Louis has in common with lots of Os, an inherent mistrust of Alphas, I mean.”

Louis inhales and closes his eyes. “No, Jim’s right. I can be more deferential. That’s a better look.”

Then, after Emily’s soft, “I’m sorry,” Louis adds, “I don’t mind,” even though he does.

Emily crosses her legs and makes direct eye contact with Jim, who takes a sip of his beer.

“Let’s get to it, then,” she says with a nod. “We’ve got a short list of As for you to meet. Some of the meetings will have to be over Skype, I think. I’ve been through the list, done research on each one, and I think you’ll be able to find one you like.” She purses her lips and refuses to hold Louis’ gaze. He doesn’t think she believes what she’s saying. She’d been on the receiving end of a rant about Louis’ ‘girlfriends’ many a time. She knows Louis’ taste in partners and she knows that stunting is his least favorite part of his job.

“All women?”

She nods. Of course.

“It’s for the best, I think. That way it’s still a splash, you know? But if anyone gets cold feet, there’ll be a way out, for either team to make it look totally normal.”

“Normal,” Louis repeats.

Jim folds his arms over his chest. “There’s a few other things we need to clear up,” he says.

From Jim’s tight smirk, Louis can tell that he isn’t going to enjoy the next part of this little investigation and Jim is.

“Who’s your registered Alpha?” Jim asks.

Louis sees that Emma has a pen out, ready to jot down his answer.

“I’m not registered to an Alpha,” Louis replies, squaring his jaw.

“It’d be better if you were. Have you considered asking someone, like your father or uncle?” Jim tilts his head to the side and Louis knows what he wants.

“My knothead of a father left before I was born so no. He never tracked me down, so I don’t see the point of trying to find him. Sorry.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. He’s still smirking. “A sad story. We can work with that. What about your next heat? When will that fall?”

“I’m sorry?” Louis must’ve heard him wrong. No one talks about heats openly except Presentation Specialists.

“We need to know when you’re heat is coming so we can plan for it,” Jim explains, more slowly.

“The label has never needed to know that information before,” Louis spits back.

“You’ve always been on suppressants, to my knowledge. That’s what Emma here told me. Obviously, this promo run will be different.” Jim’s arms are still folded across his chest and Louis wishes Harry were here. Why _isn’t_ Harry here? He might be a douche and an A, but he would _not_ stand for this line of questioning.

“I’m staying on my suppressants,” Louis tells him. “I need to be in control. I don’t know why you’d think…”

Jim’s mouth twists down. “I thought you’d want to get off them, now that you can. I thought you’d want to test your fertility, be who you really are.”

Louis feels hot all over. He wants to leave. “This _is_ who I really am.”

“I’ve heard,” Emma whispers, “that if you take them for a really long time, you can do damage to your reproductive organs. I’ve heard it’s safest to limit usage. I agree with Jim. This seems like a gift, to not have to take them.”

Louis’ stomach flips over. He hasn’t thought about kids, not really. He’s twenty-two years old. His life seems an impossible whirlwind without the added responsibility of another human life to tend to.

But he also doesn’t like the idea that he’s fucking up his chances to _ever_ have children. His specialist had never mentioned permanent infertility as a side-effect. Emma and Jim aren’t scenters, Louis tells himself, so they’d have no real idea. He’s tempted to pull out his phone and google it straight away. He can’t, though, not with the two of them watching him closely.

“I’m staying on my suppressants,” he tells them.

“Your loss,” Jim says.

Emma looks as though she wants to cry and Louis thinks she must believe what she’d said. _Jesus,_ fuck.

~

Three days later, Louis walks out of the Shady Lane boardroom, down the hall, and around the corner. He knocks on the closed door before him. Harry opens it and smiles.

“Hey,” he says.

“I can’t do this,” Louis tells him. “I can’t date an Alpha.”

Harry gestures for him to sit on the couch. This time when Harry joins him, he spreads himself out and the tips of their knees touch. Harry’s biting back a smile, lips upside down, dimples out.

“Are you sure you’re not an Olo?” he asks.

“Listen, before… everything, I used to go out dancing, like what we did the other night. I got into it with other Os a few times, but the smell- it was all wrong. A turn off. And I like.” He stops. Harry’s eyes are large and his gaze is intent on Louis’ face.

Louis probably shouldn’t share his sexual preferences with his coworker. Who fits many of them. While they are alone. In said coworker’s office. On said coworker’s couch.

“I was teasing,” Harry says, slowly. “You’ve said you’re not an Olo before and I believe you. You’re not obligated to share things like that with me.”

Louis laughs and shakes his head. He believes that Harry means what he says, or wants to, but lately he’s felt that everyone from his team, Harry included, believes themselves entitled to all the intimate details regarding Louis’ life and sexuality.

“Not what you said last week,” he says.

Harry’s brows furrow. “I only wanted to know what you wanted to tell me, so that we could create a publicity campaign that matched, you know, _you_.”

Louis folds his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs. “Well, you’ve done it, I guess.”

“You’re finished with the interviews?” Harry asks, tone firm. His eyes are on his desk, where his phone has begun to buzz against its wooden top.

“Yeah, I didn’t- I don’t think I want to do this.” He stares down at his hands which are folded in his lap. He steeples and then unsteeples his fingertips, waiting for Harry’s response and breathing in coconut.

“What happened?” Harry asks, tipping his head toward Louis. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Of course, no one _hurt_ me. _Jesus_ ,” Louis mutters. “I’m not helpless and this isn’t the middle ages.”

“Actually, a lot of historians think that in the Middle Ages Omegas had something much closer to equal status with Alphas than they do today. I kind of doubt that. Their roles were different, but we have no reason to believe that Os were better off. People who argue this are using notes and diaries from wealthy political elites which cite the accomplishments of many seemingly prosperous Os. However, in more rural settings-“

Harry stops mid-sentence and shakes his head.

“Sorry. That was off topic. I want to know why you came rushing into my office and why you’re thinking of backing off on The Plan.”

Louis remains quiet, trying to recapture the inner rant that had billowed up inside him as the girlfriend interviews wore on and on. However, Harry’s calm smile and esoteric ramblings seem to have popped that balloon.

“Were the Alphas they brought in for you awful?”

“No,” Louis replies. They hadn’t been. “The problem isn’t the Alphas. The problem is _me_. I’m not sure how to interact with them. When I was dating Betas, everything seemed simple. It didn’t matter who opened doors or spoke first. It didn’t matter if my neck was bare or how I smelled.”

Harry frowns. “And it matters now?”

“Obviously, yeah. The only reason I’m even talking to these Alphas is because one of them is going to help me show the world that I’m wanting to _hint_ that I’m an O.”

Harry brings his thumb up to his mouth to chew at his nail. Louis reaches out and knocks it down. “Stop that,” he says. “It’s not hygienic or cute.”

It _is_ kind of cute. In a gross way.

Harry pouts, which is even cuter.

“You need to relax,” Harry says. “I don’t think you need to worry about being a certain way. People are going to get the hint because you’re dating an Alpha, not because of how you act with that Alpha.”

Louis exhales and shakes his head. Harry’s wrong.

“Did you like any of them?” Harry asks, stretching out on the couch. His arm reaches up and around so it’s thrown casually over the back, behind Louis’ shoulders.

“I’m leaning toward Kendall Jenner,” Louis admits. She’d been funny, at least, and beautiful.

“I didn’t know she was an A,” Harry says.

Harry’s arm slides down a bit and the tips of Harry’s fingers are a breath away from Louis’ arm. His skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“She’s not out. None of the girls are. They’re all considering it, like me. Any of us can back out easily. A guy and girl and Betas, as far as anyone knows.”

Harry nods. The room is quiet and Harry is so _so_ close to him.

“It was weird,” Louis explodes. “There we were, sitting at the table in the interview room. She was in town for some sort of fashion expo so I could meet her in person, thank God. That’s probably one of the reasons I liked her best. And everyone is watching us, waiting for one of us to speak. Neither of us does for like a minute, maybe longer. Then we both begin at the same time.”

“Sounds cute,” Harry says, frowning.

“No, it was _awkward_. I realized that maybe I shouldn’t have spoken. I mean, I definitely shouldn’t have. That’s basic A/O etiquette.”

“Since when have you cared about A/O etiquette?”

Louis laughs. “Since always. I’m not one for upsetting the apple cart just to upset the apple cart. That’s not the way to move up in the world.”

“You’ve never bothered with me.” He’s pouting again and Louis wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“That’s because you’re a knothead.”

Harry pulls back into himself, folding his arms across his chest. “I see how it is.”

Louis does, too. Harry might be pouting, but his dimples are dancing and his eyes are light.

“With you,” Louis hears himself say. “I don’t care how things look.”

Harry gives up his (poorly executed) pretense of irritation and grins openly.

“I do care with Kendall, or whoever the team agrees on. People will be watching. Fans, the people who I need to buy my album. It matters who feeds who and who guides who through crowds. It matters what I wear and how I tilt my head.”

Harry shrugs. “I think you should just do what’s natural to you.”

Louis stands. He feels like Harry isn’t _listening_. “Nothing feels _natural_.”

A knock sounds on the door of the office and Harry calls, “Come in.”

Emma stands in the doorframe. When she sees Louis, she slumps against it. She’s carrying a single cupcake. “Thank God. I thought you’d run away. We’re supposed to meet and talk over the choices. We need to make a selection as quickly as possible. If you choose Kendall, we want to hint at a first meeting before she heads home to LA.”

She’s rubbing at her temple. Louis knows she gets headaches when things don’t go exactly according to plan and he feels terrible. She adds, “I brought you a cupcake.”

He wonders if the uptick in baked goods is part of a plot to fatten Louis up, soften him that way, or if she’s simply working off excess stress. God knows there’s enough of that to go around.

“I needed to consult with Harry. About some, erm, presentation questions that I had.” It’s not a lie, but for some reason, under Emma’s pleading gaze, it feels like one. “I wanted to ask him a few things before I made my choice.”

While that’s true, it hadn’t been his first thought as he’d rushed out of the boardroom in search of Harry. He’d felt overcome by panic, his breath coming in short pants, his pulse racing faster than it had the time he’d forgotten the words to his song in an early X Factor audition. Walking down that hall, all he’d been thinking about was Harry’s easy smile and rich scent.

“Fine, but next time, let me know where you’ve gone. It’s the end of the work day and we have a deadline.” Emma’s losing patience with him.

“Those interviews don’t sound like they went well for anyone,” Harry comments.

Emma glances at him and then at Louis, her stern expression melting a bit. “I’m sorry. I know you hate this part of the game. And I know you don’t like Alphas.”

Louis takes a deep breath. “And I know you have a life outside of this, outside of _me._ I’m sure you have a cake to get home to or something”

Emma smiles. Louis likes her, he really does. She gets him and she’s very, _very_ good at her job (and also at baking).

He turns to Harry. “We’re not finished with this conversation.”

Harry’s eyes dance and Louis doesn’t know why he looks so pleased. “Of course not.”

“I’ll text you about figuring out another time to meet.”

Harry nods.

“I can look through your calendar, if you like,” Emma offers.

“Don’t worry about it. I can set it up myself,” Louis says. For some reason, he doesn’t want Emma, or anyone for that matter, arranging his time with Harry.

“Good luck,” Harry says. He’s still lounging on the couch. Louis wonders if he ever gets any work done here or if the office is simply an excuse to do whatever the hell he wants all day long without anyone looking over his shoulder. Probably. Fucking Alphas.

“And Louis,” Harry calls. “You should choose someone you feel comfortable with. That’s what’s going to _look_ the best.”

Louis nods and follows Emma out of the room feeling inexplicably more relaxed.

#

Niall’s uploaded a video of himself practicing a swing onto Instagram and Harry’s watching it for the fifteenth time, idly wondering who might be filming him, when Louis texts.

 _You should come over to mine._ And then a second text, _to finish the conversation from earlier. Still not comfortable with A/O behavior._

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He feels a little like an imposter. It’s a new feeling for him. All of his knowledge of healthy A/O relationships is second or thirdhand, from interviews, survey data, and books. He’s never been in an A/O relationship himself and the only one he’s witnessed personally is the disaster that was his mother and father’s marriage.

But it’s not like he’s felt he’s needed a personal connection to his client’s issues before. He’d helped Nick and Sam without having experienced their exact struggle. He shouldn’t need that kind of knowledge. This is his _job_.

_When?_

Louis replies, _now?_

Harry looks at the clock. It’s seven pm on a Saturday night. He’d been thinking about going out to the club, probably picking up a fuck, as a vague, unsettling arousal has been itching under his skin for the last week or so. He doesn’t want to associate that feeling with Louis. He wants to work it out of his system, so that he can focus.

Harry texts back, _okay._

_~_

Louis is out of breath, hair askew when he answers the door. “You’re here,” he says, as though Harry’s visit has caught him by surprise.

Leading Harry toward the kitchen, he begins to talk a mile a minute about the remodeling work he’s considering- the addition of an indoor pool out back- and the health of his cat. Still chatting on, now about his latest work with Liam and how he might play piano on one or two tracks, he opens cupboard after cupboard.

Harry perches on the back of a couch just on the other side of the breakfast bar and listens. The couch is low to the ground and much larger than the couch in Harry’s office. Harry tells himself this is a good thing. He’d been distracted earlier, tempted to touch the fine hairs on Louis’ arms, to see if they were as smooth and soft as they appear.

When Louis begins to move out of the kitchen, Harry settles himself onto the couch properly. Louis sets a bowl of chocolate candies on the coffee table and remains standing. “So,” he says.

Harry looks up at him.

“I just- I wanted to learn more about A/O relationships. What are they actually like? What do Alphas expect from their partners? I have no idea about that sort of thing.”

Harry pats the couch beside him and Louis sits.

“I don’t think they’re that different from other relationships. I mean, for some people who are really old fashioned they might be. But I think they argue about which kind of pickles to buy and split the laundry and the washing up and fret about whether to invite their weird neighbors over for dinner.”

Louis stands again and begins to pace.

Harry’s overcome by the urge to pull him into his lap and rub firm circles over his back. He doesn’t do that, of course. “Louis, it’s not the big deal you’re making it out to be.”

“I got a message from Jim. He’s arranging for Kendall and I to go out to lunch in LA in two weeks. A date. _In Los Angeles._ He said I should find an appropriate outfit.” Louis looks at Harry, eyes wide. “What does that mean, ‘an appropriate outfit’?”

Harry doesn’t like Jim.

“I don’t know,” he says. He reaches for the right thing to say. This is his _job_ , for fuck’s sake. “Something more fashionable than your usual. Something that accentuates your neck, maybe.”

Louis sighs and tugs at the hem of his oversized tee-shirt. “You’ve dated Os before,” he says.

Their eyes meet and lock. Harry wishes Louis would sit down.

“I haven’t,” Harry admits. He looks away, out the window and into the garden behind Louis’ house.

When he turns back, Louis perches on the arm of the couch. It’s closer to where Harry would like him to be.

“Never?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head.

“But you must have some idea of how you’d want a partner to act. An O, I mean.” Louis’ tone is brusque and Harry can recognize, now, that this means he’s masking uncertainty.

Harry shrugs. “I know what I’ve liked and what I haven’t in the Betas I’ve been with.” He recognizes that this is veering out of professional territory and into personal.

“Tell me,” Louis prompts, sliding down onto the seat of the couch. He’s still a few feet away from Harry, but it’s an improvement.

“I’m a bit of a data nerd.”

Louis laughs. “Understatement.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “And so I like it when my partner can smooth over my awkwardness in social situations. I guess that’s not really ‘traditional A/O,’ though.”

“No,” Louis says. “It’s not.”

Harry closes his eyes and tries think. “Nice ass. Eyelashes. Funny.” He takes a harsh breath. “This is not helpful. I know it’s not.”

“Would you be alright if your partner provided the food, like paid for the meal or cooked it?”

“Yes.”

“What about if they fed it to you, or like, offered you a taste of fish or noodles off their own fork? What about opening doors, pulling out chairs, speaking first, ordering, introductions? What about their attire? Do you want to be able to choose their outfits? Would you want to match? And I know collars are a little outdated, but some Alphas like that, don’t they?”

Harry tries to think. It’s been a long time since he’d ended things with his last boyfriend. “I don’t think it really matters.”

“Really? Maybe it’s different with Betas.” Louis taps his fingers against the leather and Harry can feel the vibrations under his own thigh. “I don’t suppose it really matters what Alphas actually want either. What do people want to see? What sells in an A/O relationship?”

Harry smirks. “I know what sells.”

Louis relaxes into the cushions, turning his body slightly to face Harry, brow arched. “What?”

“Romantic comedies.” Harry tries to keep his face even. For all that he _hates_ stereotypes and has found _actual_ romance to be a waste of time, he has a soft spot for curling up on his leather sofa with a glass of wine, skyping his mum, and watching the latest blockbuster drivel with his mother’s over-the-top commentary in the background. (She always has _opinions_ about people. If she knew Harry worked with celebrities, he’d never hear the end of it.)

Louis laughs and Harry thinks that’s the end of it. The subject will drop, a joke.

But after a moment, Louis says, “You know, you’re right. They make a ton of money on _those_ A/O relationships. We could absolutely play that out.”

“Not many star male Omegas.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Louis suggests. “Maybe I act the same as female O.”

“You think?”

“You like research, right, Styles?”

Harry does enjoy research.

“Well, get out your notes app. We’re gonna see what sells.” Louis is pulling up Amazon Prime before he’s even finished speaking.

~

Two and half hours later, Louis is tucked under Harry’s arm, as they pass Harry’s phone back and forth between them, adding to a very, _very_ long list.

Attractive Omega Behavior

\- Baring necks

\- Batting eyelashes

\- Laughing at nothing

\- Tucking chin

\- Asking A’s opinion

\- Acting disinterested in mating

\- Wiggling ass

\- Covering neck

\- Tipping chin

\- Deferring to A

\- Loving children

Sexual/Pre-Bonding Activities

\- Feeding (A to O)

\- Sniffing (A of O)

\- Biting (A on O)

\- Kneeling (O before A)

\- Petting (A of O)

\- Using pet names (A of O)

“What should yours be?” Harry asks.

“I don’t do nicknames. No one calls me nicknames,” Louis spits the words out hastily and with venom, tensing against Harry.

Harry thinks about the way Amelia cuddles Lola to her chest when she’s tired, even now that she’s almost too big for it, and murmurs, “My sweet, sweet Lolo.”

“Really? What did your mummy call you?”

“Louis. Or for a while it was ‘Lewis.’ Have you heard that story?” Louis is sitting up and away from him now. “She wanted me to be Louis, but no one at school pronounced it correctly, so I decided to change it-“

“I’ve heard the story,” Harry says. It’s one of Louis’ go-tos whenever someone asks about his family or how fame has changed him. “Pet? Duck?”

“No.”

The movie, an old Hollywood film set in the American West, continues to play on in the background.

 

“Poppet? Doodles? Lulu?”

“No.” Louis rolls his shoulders, relaxing back against the couch (and Harry) and looking out the window into the black of night. Harry tries to follow his gaze, but Harry’s caught on Louis himself, pink flush showing through his tan, the whole of him glowing in the lamplight.

He smells good, Harry thinks, and then halts that line of thought.

“Come on, what was it? I promise that if you tell me I will never mention it again. I won’t use it. I won’t share it. I’ll immediately drop the subject. I won’t even laugh.”

Shots fire on screen and then someone, probably the Omega heroine, screams.

“Pudding,” Louis whispers.

“Pudding?!” Harry laughs. “That’s a good one. Pudding. Why ‘pudding?’ Because you seem so tasty and smell so good?”

Louis glares at him. “You said you’d drop it.”

Harry closes his mouth and turns away. He can feel his smile threatening to break free again, so he refocuses on the film. Or tries to.

Louis sighs, his shoulders rising and falling underneath Harry’s arm. Harry wonders if he knows what’s happening on screen, whether he should push pause and ask Louis to explain.

Instead, Harry leans in, pressing his lips against Louis’ ear. “Pudding.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says, not turning away from the television.

“I think it’s cute,” Harry says. “Pudding.”

Louis grabs Harry’s phone and adds to their list, ‘nut smacking (O to A, HARD).’

“I’m watching the film. I know that hasn’t happened,” Harry says, voice light.

“Oh, but it’s about to,” Louis replies. “If one Alpha in particular doesn’t learn to keep his mouth closed.”

Harry decides to do as Louis’ asked and keep his mouth closed, for the moment. He doesn’t have anything to say.

Still, he can’t keep his mind on the film. He’s having difficulty keeping his attention on much aside from Louis, especially since he’s scooted up so close. Harry tries to focus on their list instead.

But instead of small back type lined up neatly by bullet points, he sees Louis covering his neck, and keeping his neck uncovered. He sees the two of them sharing a meal, picking bites off each other’s plates. He sees himself placing a hand on the small of Louis’ back and then sliding it lower, till it covers Louis’ ass. He sees himself pulling Louis onto his lap, burying his nose in Louis’ neck, nuzzling, scenting, _marking._

His dick twitches and he inhales sharply.

Louis turns his head toward Harry and takes a long look. Harry does not return his gaze. His thoughts are in wildly inappropriate territory. They’ve turned into dangerous beasts, scratching and growling to be set free, and Harry doesn’t trust them not to spiral further out of control at the smallest signal of encouragement.

Louis returns his attention to the television.

Harry relaxes and tries to pick up the plot. Girl in green dress with high neck. Tears. Man on horse in hat. Shouting. Guns fired.

Harry has no idea what the hell is happening.

Again, his thoughts drift toward Louis. This time he’s able to keep them in the moment, steer them away from the temptation by taking careful notes.

The corners of Louis’ mouth are turned up, almost a smile even though the music behind the film is decidedly mournful. Louis blinks and his lashes are so long that they brush his cheeks. Harry wonders if he can feel them, if they tickle.

Louis’ hand pulls at the fabric of his trouser leg. Harry assumes that he means for the motion to be subtle, but Harry’s watching him too closely to miss it. Harry’s seen him do the same before and he wonders if he’s trying to adjust his dick. Harry’s eyes travel up toward his crotch, searching for sign of the bulge.

And he can see it, the outline of Louis’ cock against his thigh, half-hard. Harry swallows.

Louis’ aroused and Harry wonders if he’s getting wet. No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than the smell hits him, rich and floral.

Before he can stop himself, he sniffs, wanting more.

Louis stiffens, but he doesn’t speak. Or move.

Harry thinks about inching away. He should do that. Or, even better, he should get up and grab something to drink. Or, even better, he should leave. They’re finished working, if you can call the list they’ve made ‘work’ (which Harry definitely can and will).

Louis lets out a soft breath, a whisper that Harry shouldn’t be able to hear. He wouldn’t have heard it if his eyes hadn’t been watching Louis’ lips part and the fine hair above his lip ripple.

“I’m sorry,” Louis murmurs, voice so small.

“It’s natural,” Harry replies, matching the quietness in tone. “More natural than anything else on that list. You can’t control your pheromones. No one can.”

Louis licks his lips, a teasing blur and swirl of pink on pink. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Harry continues. He’s trying to convince himself. He knows that and is not proud of it. “Could happen sitting beside any Alpha, talking about romance, watching a romantic film. Science. Biology.”

“Indeed,” Louis says. He turns to look at Harry, who is, of course, already staring straight back. His eyes appear grey in the low light of the room. The TV flickers in the background, outlining his head in whirlwind of browns and greens and blacks.

Louis licks his lips. Again.

Harry feels himself mimic the motion, Louis’ eyes following closely.

Harry wants to kiss him. He’s heard Omegas taste like they smell, but better. He’d take his time, Harry thinks. Explore. Discover the shape of Louis’ mouth with the tip of his tongue. Tease out his most sensitive spots. Revel in the heat of him.

“What are you thinking about?” Louis asks.

Harry suspects he already knows. He clears his throat and Louis blinks.

“I should go home. This is inappropriate.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, no. I’m sorry. I should never have-“ He cuts off.

“You’re fine,” Harry says. And then, he adds, “Nothing I haven’t done with Nick.”

In the strictest of senses, that’s a true statement. Harry’s been to Nick’s plenty of times, for brunch and lunch and even, once, a late supper. He enjoyed bringing Nick into the strategy and research portions of his work. He’d watched at least four films on Nick’s couch. (It’s a stone grey color with seat cushions a touch too firm for Harry’s taste. He prefers Louis’, though neither are as soft and smooth as his own.)

“You have?” Louis asks, voice shaky. He’s moving back, toward the arm of the couch, away from Harry.

Harry nods. “He has a lovely flat.”

Louis pulls at his trousers. “So you two were like…”

“Like?” Harry prompts before he realizes what Louis’ asking and rushes to say, “No. We’ve never- I wouldn’t- I’m a professional. We work together.”

Louis chokes out a laugh. “So with him you’re a professional. Okay.” He folds his arms over his chest and Harry doesn’t know what to say.

“I really wouldn’t, like, do anything sexual. Not with a client.” He means it, too. Relationships fuck up a person’s objectivity. Or perhaps, objectivity fucks up relationships. Whichever it is, academics who specialize in gender and presentation do not do play well with others, not romantically, anyway. Harry’s discovered this the hard way. Several times.

“That’s what you say now.” One of Louis’ hands drifts up to his neck and Harry’s breath hitches. A corner of Louis’ mouth ticks up.

Harry’s jaw drops. “You’re _teasing_ me.”

Louis smiles. And Harry wants to kiss him all over again. Despite the teasing. Because of the teasing, maybe.

He stands and Louis’ face falls.

“It’s late. I should really go.”

Louis nods. “You should. I’ll walk you out.”

Harry feels Louis close behind him, hand hovering at the small of Harry’s back as they walk to the door. It’s the opposite of the posture they’d watched over and over in the films, Omega guiding Alpha instead of the other way around. Harry doesn’t think it is awkward in the least.

When they’re standing in the entryway, Louis grabs Harry’s arm. “I really appreciate all the work you’re putting into this. It’s obviously a really big deal to me. And, yeah.”

Harry’s heard similar words from clients before. He knows his role in these situations is important and he nods gravely, but his attention is elsewhere.

Over Louis’ shoulder is a floor length mirror and Harry can see the reflection of Louis’ ass in it. He wants to reach around and pinch it, hear Louis squeal. His sister would kill him if he she found out he’d so much as had the thought. He doesn’t think Louis would mind, though.

“I’ll email you the list we made,” Harry says.

“Yeah, um, do,” Louis replies. His hand is at his throat again. This time, Harry doesn’t think he’s doing it on purpose. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Harry replies.

~

Harry buries his face in the blanket on the back of his couch. He can feel the weight of his phone in his hand. An email had buzzed through as he’d unlocked the door to his flat. From Louis Tomlinson. The subject line read “Story of My Life.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. Sweat has broken out on his brow. He wants to open it very badly. Maybe it’s not even from Louis. Maybe one of the many other people who work with him use an account in his name to exchange Louis Tomlinson related information. That’s probably what it is.

His music video is scheduled to drop any day now. Perhaps someone’s sent Harry throwaway information about the release. The more he thinks about it, the more likely that seems. Hell, Louis might even have sent it himself.

Or, his brain suggests, Louis has sent him a confession regarding the inspiration for the lyrics. Louis poured out his heart, explaining the struggles of being an Omega in an Alpha’s word, because Harry’s made him feel safe and comfortable.

Harry sits up and takes a deep breath.

Stupid.

That’s an idiotic thought. First of all, Harry thinks, he doesn’t buy into the myth that Os need an Alpha to feel safe. More importantly, they work together, so any explicitly A/O dynamic they may have going on is inappropriate and irrelevant.

He opens the email.

_Hey Harry, my producer just sent this to me and I thought you might enjoy it. Password is ltsoml Let me know if you think it could be softened or something, to make it seem more vulnerable, more O. Hope you like it._

Harry clicks the link to a dropbox and types in the password.

He doesn’t think he breathes the entire four minutes and five seconds of footage. From the moment Louis’ body appears surrounded by concrete and lines of old photographs, Harry’s frozen. The soft light sets Louis to glowing, an angel with a proper quiff and halo.

Someone has chosen just the right photographs from Louis’ childhood. Little Louis and his grandparents on Christmas Eve. Little Louis and an even younger child, sitting together at a piano. Little Louis in a bright blue robe eating cereal with his mum. Little Louis, all dressed up in a suit and tie, three little girls, equally fancy, lined up beside him.

The photos are sweet, but sweeter still is the way that they come alive, the people in them aged up, but just as happy, just as tender to one another.

Harry’s particularly taken with the cereal photograph. Louis’ eyes are alight with mischief and so are his mother’s. In both the old still and the updated live version, his mother wears a turtleneck. A fashion choice that is singularly Omega.

As he watches the latter version of them laugh together, Harry’s pulse thrums at the contrast between her modesty and Louis’ bare throat, tan against the gaping top of the blue robe.

When the video finishes, Harry takes a steadying breath.

He types back to Louis, _I love it. It’s perfect._

~

The music video is released at midnight in LA. Across the ocean, in his flat in London, Harry wakes to his alarm blaring from the floor beside the couch where he’d fallen asleep only a few hours earlier. Sunlight pours in through his east- facing windows. He makes himself a cup of coffee and pulls out his laptop to assess the damage.

The Louis Tomlinson corner of the internet is a disaster zone. It’s not a surprise. Team Tommo, as the news media sometimes refers to his fans, had been a mess of angst the night before, keeping Harry awake into the early hours of the morning. Harry curled up on his couch, refreshing his work dash over and over and over, devouring the speculation.

@Louis__Tomlinson had tweeted, “see you soon, love :)” at 9pm GMT.

A seemingly simple tweet that struck its target with the destructive force of the bomb it was intended to be.

Louis has been in LA, preparing for a round of US promo. His ex, Eleanor, is also in LA, posting photo after photo of herself at the beach and shopping at a trendy boutique and in a club. One (fairly large) group of fans assumes that the two ex-lovers have reunited.

Another cohort of Team Tommo believes that the public was _meant to think_ that the two have reunited. (This cohort also believes their relationship has been a PR sham from its beginning two years prior.) A third group suspects that Louis is referencing one of the many other Betas he’s been seen with in past months. And a fourth group hopes he’s hinting at an imminent video drop.

A small but vocal group of stalkers and anons are swearing on their lives that they _just_ saw Kendall Jenner and Louis Tomlinson leave an exclusive club together _holding hands._ They swear that a ton of paps caught the couple dashing down the block and into a waiting limo.

The general reaction to these eager beavers has been _we shall see_.

When the video drops, the group who voted that Louis’ first and best ‘love’ is and always will be his devoted ‘fans’ crow that they’ve won the debate. Harry knows they’re correct, knows that Louis _does_ love his fans first and best and that his romantic shenanigans are purely for show. He also knows that they’re about to be crushed.

TMZ posts the first video: Kendall, laughing as she drags Louis behind her out of front door of the club, tugging him down the street and into the waiting car, their fingers laced loosely. Louis is shaking his head, a soft, uncertain smile on his lips. They look natural together, in a weird, unnatural way.

That seems to unleash a barrage of photos from various agencies featured in articles from nearly every tabloid in the world.

The story is simple and uninteresting to the casual follower of celebrity gossip. Two young kids, good-looking and wildly successful Betas, party together and then leave the party together.

For the more serious fan, it’s much more complex. Kendall isn’t _out,_ no. But she often talks about _‘_ taking charge’ and ‘being bold.’ Now, these aren’t exclusively Alpha characteristics, but it’s also not typical female Beta talk, either. Moreover, Harry’s scanned her Instagram and knows she’s constantly posting about her shopping escapades and luncheons and glam sessions with her openly Omega bff. In fact, just two days ago, she’d uploaded a pic of the two of them, her face buried in the other girl’s neck. The O’s eyes had been heavy-lidded, her lips slightly parted, and much of Kendall’s fan base had taken the pic as outright confirmation of their relationship.

Team Tommo has no idea what to make of Kendall’s outing with Louis Tomlinson.

So instead they focused on the video, commenting at length about Louis’ sweetness as a child, his round cheeks and big grin. They comment on his mother, lovely and so _O_. They comment on the easy way he appeared to behave with his sisters, happy and comfortable, even though he’d said in previous interviews that he’s barely spent any time at home with them since the X Factor.

Every time Harry refreshes his dashboard, he’s bombarded with a fresh slew of posts, gifs and stills and shitposts and analysis. All of the new content at once is too much for anyone to make much sense of. Even Harry, who’s part of the team that planned it all, feels a little overwhelmed.

Niall Horan’s recent match photos and interviews get lost in the mix, but Harry finds that he doesn’t much mind. He wants to know what people are saying about Louis.

He notes that the Anons from the office are hard at work. _Anon: my friend is an O and she was their server at the club and she swore that she_ smelled _them. L’s scent is ’soft and light.’_

That’s not how Harry would describe Louis’ scent, but he knows that’s not the point. He doubts (hopes?) that anyone else has actually smelled Louis recently, certainly not a random club girl, nor anyone from the PR team. Hell, Harry’s only scented him twice, both under very sensual circumstances.

When he sees a post that says, _louis is the perfect O role model: 1) confident in himself 2) friendly to other Os 3) my son,_ he links it to Louis by text.

Louis sends him back a series of smiley faces.

This is good, he tells himself. This is exactly what they’d planned.

~

Harry flies to New York four days later. He downs a couple fingers of whiskey during the flight to help him sleep.

He’s been itching with nerves the last few days, checking the tumblr app (which he still means to delete from his phone) every fifteen minutes and texting Louis non-stop during down times, just to check in.

The internet continues to pick apart the ins and outs of the video, searching for head tilts and chin tucks and over and over and over again pointing out the soft soft soft of it.

Harry’s sister had contacted him asking if he’d be able to watch Lola this weekend and he’d agreed just minutes before getting the emergency call to New York. Luckily, his mum had been able to cancel the Saturday luncheon she’d been planning to host. She’ll take over Lola duties. Harry hates backing out on his family, but Max insisted that whatever was happening with Louis in New York City constituted a legitimate emergency that only Harry was equipped to handle.

Harry had texted Louis straight away. Nothing in their semi-regular back and forth had indicated anything strange and certainly not an emergency. Granted, mostly they’d been bickering about the slew of contestants on the new season of the Bachelor.

(Harry thought they’d overdone the stereotyping, the Alpha Bachelor having to choose between fifteen large-boned, average looking Betas and and six slim and lovely, but incredibly needy Omegas. Louis insisted that Harry was overstating the issue. He’d insisted that lots of the Betas were quite attractive.)

_What’s going on? What’s the emergency?_

Louis hadn’t responded to Harry’s questions. Instead, he’d sent Harry photo of Kanye West with the caption, _I can’t believe I agreed to be part of this man’s family._

Harry tried again. _Why are they sending me out to New York?_

To which Louis replied, _Who? When? Why?_

_~_

“I don’t why they brought you here,” Louis says. He’s laying on his hotel bed in only boxers. Harry knows that the rules of propriety in almost every society in the world dictate that Harry should not be here, in this room, alone with a near naked Omega and a bed.

Other members of Louis’ entourage, his bodyguard, stylist, and PA are in the next room over, arguing about the practicality of Louis wearing a leather jacket in midsummer. Which is good. It makes the A/O situation safer. Still, he leaves the door between the rooms open.

Harry sits gingerly on the bed. Louis has a controller in his lap and he’s squinting at the flatscreen mounted on the wall. The tip of his tongue slips out of the corner of his mouth.

“Max said you needed help preparing for your next date,” Harry says slowly. He has no idea why he’d be called into help with such a thing. He’s not a stylist or an event person. He figures maybe Louis wants another behavior consultation. Or, actually, with Louis playing dumb, he’d expected Max to send him with a list of pointers for Louis, things they wanted him to say to the cameras or fans, ways they’d wanted him to move his body or interact with Kendall. Harry hadn’t been given any of that, though, just instructions to help Louis get ready.

Something on the screen explodes and Louis heaves a huge sigh. He turns to meet Harry’s eyes with his own, the dark circles underneath them a signal to Harry that something isn’t quite right.

“What date?” Louis asks. “I’m not going on any date.”

Harry tilts his head. “With Kendall, this evening. Apparently the plan is to put you in a leather jacket and have you do a little walk around the Village. Doesn’t have to be long. You can be in bed by nine, ready for your 4:30 call for Good Morning America, if you like.”

“You sure know a lot about my so-called plans,” Louis says, turning back to the screen.

“That’s it; that’s all I know. Max said you needed my help getting ready for it.”

“I’m not going to ‘do a little walk around the Village.’ I’m not leaving this hotel room,” Louis replies. “I decided I’m out. I want to do the thing with the engagement. Or date another Omega. Or something else. Anything else.”

Harry’s stomach drops. _Oh_. This is why he’d been called in.

He’d seen from the photos that Louis had been slightly uncomfortable on the LA date, but he hadn’t looked miserable, certainly not like his cat and grandma had both just died, which is how he’d looked on almost every single date with Eleanor.

“I thought you got along with her,” Harry says. “I thought you liked her.”

Louis shrugs. “She’s not the problem.”

“What _is_ the problem?”

Louis closes his eyes. Something on screen explodes and he opens them again. “I’m out. You said that if I decided I didn’t want this, I could stop it. You said that my continued consent would be a stipulation of the contract.”

Harry hasn’t read the contract, but he knows from experience that there’s no way in hell Jake and Kendall’s people agreed to anything quite that simple. “You’ll have to give a reason.” This will be the minimum requirement.

“I might as well be binning my name. No one has anything good to say about us.” Louis tosses the remote to the floor and crosses his arms over his chest.

Harry moves to lie next to him on the bed. It’s not strictly professional, Harry knows, to lay in bed with one’s client. And neither is watching films and cuddling on the couch until three in the morning.

But Louis is an unusual client. Harry doesn’t think he’d respond well to the luncheon and lawyer approach Jake resorts to with petulant stars.

“That’s bullshit. No one knows what to make of you and Kendall. They’re not saying much either way, not yet. Tell me what went wrong. Why are you backing out now?”

#

_Why are you backing out now?_

Louis considers the question. He should have backed out a long time ago. He should never have agreed to this in the first place. And yet, the lure of beating Zayn _and_ being more ‘honest’ about himself had been unassailable. The Plan seems like a surefire way to launch him to the top of the charts _and_ , possibly, improve his mental health.

More than that, it will give him the opportunity to look like a hero.

He’s not a hero, though.

He’s just a guy. An Omega. Who has no idea how the fuck he’s supposed to act. What with the cultural changes of the last twenty years, he can’t fall into a traditional role- not that male Os have ever, quite had a traditional role. And neither can he completely reject tradition. Either option loses him a large contingent of fans.

The heat of Harry’s body next to his comforts him and, even though he’d been angry when Jake told him that he was sending in reinforcements, Louis feels grateful that Harry’s here, in New York, in Louis’ hotel room, in Louis’ bed.

“Well?” Harry prompts.

Louis turns off the TV and throws an arm over his eyes.

“I didn’t know what to do. The list didn’t help. Something felt off. I still wasn’t sure…” Louis trails off. It sounds like a stupid problem when he says it aloud.

Harry hums. “When? What felt off?”

“Her scent,” Louis whispers.

“I thought you said there wasn’t a problem with _her._ ”

“I mean, I can tolerate it, yeah. She doesn’t smell _bad_. But she doesn’t smell safe, either. Which makes me even more unsure about how to act.”

Harry rolls onto his side, so that he’s looking down into Louis’ face. A curl slips out from behind his ear and casts a shadow across his cheek. “Are there Alphas whose scents smell ‘safe’ to you?”

Louis smiles. Harry knows. He has to. But his gaze is intent, unwavering, so Louis says, “Yours.”

Harry flops onto his back again and brings a thumb to his mouth to chew. He doesn’t seem pleased by this revelation, so Louis adds, “And Nick’s as well.”

Nick’s scent doesn’t interest him like Harry’s, though. It doesn’t calm his nerves one moment and set them on edge the next.

Harry whispers, “I could go with you.”

His voice is hollow and low. He makes the ‘date’ sound like a death sentence. Louis doesn’t care. “That might help.”

“If you really want to call this to a halt, tell me right now. I will move heaven and earth to stop it,” Harry says, suddenly, voice thick again and fervent. “I promise. If you really don’t want to go ahead with this, I’ll help you stop it.”

Louis considers it. Three hours ago, he’d wanted just that. “Why don’t we try to do the date with you there? Maybe reevaluate afterward?”

Harry sighs. “We can try.”

~

Louis closes his eyes and breathes deeply, focusing on the coconut scent wafting from behind him. Harry’s here, less than ten feet away.

Kendall knocks at Louis’ wrist with the back of her head. “Hey, it’s just ten more minutes. Then we’re scheduled to get out of here.”

Louis looks down at his empty plate. He’d finished eating twenty minutes ago.

“At least the food was good,” Kendall tries again.

Louis forces himself to smile at her. “Better than that undercooked fish in LA.”

A laugh gusts out of Kendall. “I’ve literally never had _undercooked_ fish before. I didn’t even know it was possible. Like _sushi_ is raw fish, right?”

Louis nods and this time his smile feels a little more genuine. Still, he can’t help but take a moment to glance behind him, over his shoulder at Harry, who’s watching him right back. Harry tips his martini glass in a mock toast.

Louis twists back to Kendall feeling flushed.

Kendall’s still laughing. “Oh my god.” She leans across the table and in a low hiss, says, “You _have a thing_ for your PR guy. Oh my god.”

Louis begins to shake his head, but Kendall cuts him off, placing her hand over his and saying, “Don’t bother denying it. I can see the truth written all over your face. And his, to be honest with you. You two are not subtle.”

“We’re colleagues,” Louis tells her, frowning. “Just because he’s an Alpha and I’m an Omega doesn’t mean it’s _like that_ between us.”

“No.” Kendall’s eyes twinkle and she shrugs. “But it _is_ like that between you.”

Her hand is still atop Louis’. They’re not in a place rife with stalkers and fans, but he wishes they were. This is probably the perfect shot. She’s in control of the conversation and of him, but in a sort of sweet way.

Kendall leans toward him again, all the way across the table this time, her heavy jade pendant swinging into her empty salad bowl with clack. “You _like_ him. So tell me, how are you going after him?”

Louis sputters, pull his hand away. “What?”

“How are you wooing him?” Kendall asks.

“I’m not?”

“Well,” Kendall smacks the table softly with a little laugh. “That’s about to change. What’s his role on your team?”

“Gender and presentation expert,” Louis tells her, not because he has any intention of trying to woo Harry, but because this conversation seems like it might pass the time till they can leave.

“Really?” Kendall waggles her eyebrows. “I need to get me one of those. I didn’t even know they existed.”

Louis shrugs. “He’s contracted through my PR agency.”

Kendall reaches for Louis hand again and her grip tighter now. “Tilt your head.”

“You want me to…?” Louis is confused. Kendall hasn’t done anything before that moment to indicate any interest in Louis whatsoever. He’d assumed the rumors about her and her best friend were true.

“Not for me, dumbass. For _him_. To make him jealous.”

Louis eyes widen. “He knows I don’t-“

“Trust me,” Kendall presses, wearing a smile that makes her look remarkably like her Aunt Kim.

Louis tilts his head.

From up close, Louis can see that Kendall is struggling to keep from laughing, but he doubts that Harry can see the way the corner of her mouth twitches.

“Okay, now. How can you get him alone?” she asks.

Louis exhales. This is crazy. And thrilling. He thinks about her question, tempted to turn toward Harry again. Finally, he says, “Consult.”

“Can you take him on a consult _date_?”

Louis feels a smile break out across his face. “That is a _great_ idea. Perfect.”

~

“That seemed like it went well.” Harry’s voice is quiet, his expression unreadable.

Louis doesn’t think he’s happy.

Louis shrugs. “It was better than the last time,” he allows.

Harry bites at his thumb nail. “You two were laughing by the end of it.”

“Sometimes.” Louis draws out the word, trying to think. “Sometimes, you’re so uncomfortable all you can do is laugh.”

“You let her touch you.”

Louis keeps his face neutral despite the bubble of laughter he feels in his throat. “We were on a PR date. Of course, I let her touch me. We literally signed a contract requiring us to touch.”

Harry frowns, now, openly. “Does the contract really specifically require her to touch you like that?”

“Like what?”

Harry shakes his head and looks out the window of the car.

“Having you along helped,” Louis says. “I think you should stick around, if you can, for this run of PR. Do you think Jake will allow it?”

Harry doesn’t look at him. “He’ll allow it.”

A thick silence fills the car and Louis isn’t quite sure how to cut through it. So far Kendall’s seduction plan is failing.

“So you still didn’t really feel comfortable with her?” Harry asks, brows drawn together, as he finally turns back to look at Louis.

“No,” Louis replies quickly. “I still wasn’t sure exactly how to behave. Because I’m not comfortable with her scent, I wasn’t even really able to follow your advice and just be me.”

Harry rubs at his forehead. Louis wonders if he’s developing a headache. “I don’t know how to make it better.”

“I have an idea.” Louis stomach swoops. “We could, like, go on a practice date?”

Louis closes his eyes. This is so stupid. Harry will see right through it. Or, even if he doesn’t, he’ll never agree.

“A practice date?” Harry repeats slowly. It’s not the protest Louis expects.

Louis opens his eyes. “Yeah, because I feel comfortable enough to be myself around you and you’re an Alpha. So maybe if we practiced some A/O behaviors in a date-like setting, I might be able to get a feeling for how to behave with Kendall.”

It’s so convoluted and suddenly it strikes Louis how in the matter of a month or so he’s gone from hating Harry and trying to have him removed from his team, to making up lies to keep him on tour and draw him closer.

“Do you really think that would help?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”

Harry draws his lower lip between his teeth and bites into it.

Louis adds, “It couldn’t hurt.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow and then takes a breath. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

~

Louis wakes (at 4:25am) to a text from Harry.

_Emma says you don’t have anything between 3-5pm tomorrow._

Louis opens his calendar. Dozens of people have access to it during a promo cycle and it’s constantly changing. He’s buzzing with alerts so often he’s considered trying to disable the app on his phone. Indeed, he’s free between 3 and 5pm. Taking into account that it’s his only down time in a twenty hour day, he’s hoping he can slip in a nap.

 _Naptime! [ZZZ emoji],_ he replies.

Three dots indicate that Harry is also awake at this ungodly hour. Louis waits for a message, but it never comes through. Eventually, the three dots disappear.

Louis is adjusting his shirt over his shower-damp body in the back of a car headed for the GMA studios fifteen minutes later, when another text buzzes in. He expects a ‘good luck’ from his mum, as she knows how nerve-wracking live television appearances are for him. This should be the worst he’s done, what with the presentation rumors flying and the rep talk Emma had given him about _keeping_ them flying (she’d softened the blow with maple walnut candies). But he hasn’t had time to worry about it. He’d been too fixated on last night.

When he opens his phone, he sees that he’s missed several messages. Indeed, his mum has sent him a good luck text and a snap of her and his little sister snuggled up on the couch, ready to watch him perform. He’s also got a snap from Liam of Liam’s puppy covered in flexing arm stickers. Louis can’t be sure, but he thinks it means ‘good luck’ as well.

The last message is from Harry. _What about tomorrow morning?_

Louis opens his calendar. He’s got a flight out of JFK at 2pm and nothing else at all. _What about it?,_ he texts back _,_ uncertain what Harry’s hinting at.

_Can I take you out for our practice date?_

Louis freezes. In the windows on either side of him, the busy New York streets flash past, a blur of people and cars and noise. What had been thinking? How had Harry agreed? _A practice date_? Next things next- practice kissing, practice fucking, practice knotting, practice bonding.

He _had_ asked for it, though. He can’t back out now. That’d be even stranger. Probably.

 _A breakfast date?_ That seems safe. Not yes, not no. Still room for either of them to make a joke of it.

 _A breakfast PRACTICE date_. _We can pretend it’s dinner, if you’d prefer. We’re both excellent actors._

Louis laughs. His fingers hover over the keyboard as he considers what to type back.

Suddenly, the car jerks into the parking lot and Louis’ door is being pulled open from the outside _._ He can answer later.

~

George Stephanopolis is leering at him. Louis’d never given two seconds of thought to the man before this morning, but his grin is fake as fuck, even by Louis’ incredibly generous standards. On top of which he’s an Alpha and he acts like it.

He’d given Louis a series of easy questions to begin. How was Louis enjoying New York this time around? What’s the thing he misses most about the UK when he’s touring the States? Isn’t the popularity of Story of my Life- a record number of Youtube hits in the first twenty-four hours- a little overwhelming? How did he help write the most recent single?

Yesterday afternoon Emma and Louis had prepped each of these questions, going over an array of possible answers, weighing the benefits of each.

(Between bites of candy, Emma has confessed that for her previous clients, she’d simply chosen answers for the star to learn and recite, but that Louis’ insights and ideas are invaluable. “When the whole popstar thing flops, you could be an excellent PR consultant,” she’d told him. He doesn’t think the benefits are quite the same.)

They’d also prepped for the possibility that Stephanopolis would go off script. He’s done it before, with Bieber and even more recently, with Zayn. (Though, really, Louis thinks that Zayn’s team _should_ have had him prepared to answer a question about the ‘addiction rumors,’ what with it being _live television._ )

So Louis’ ready when Stephanopolis says, “In that music video, you reveal that your mum is an Omega. How has her presentation affected you? Do you think it hurt your opportunities growing up or held you back in any way? Are _you_ an scenter?”

Of course Louis’ team had requested that he _not_ be asked about presentation. It’s a topic most young celebrities avoid, like politics and mental health. They want to raise the issue of presentation in association with Louis’ current album drop, but they want to do it slowly, carefully. They want to be in control.

Live television is one of the _least_ controllable formats.

Still, Louis is ready with an answer.

“She’s wonderful mum. She took wonderful care of me as a child and saw to it that I had everything I needed. I mean, look where I am now- talking to _George Stephanopolis_ on _Good Morning America_ about my upcoming album. I owe so much- everything, probably- to her dedication as a mum.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Stephanopolis says. He’s smirking, as if unimpressed by the smoke and mirrors answer, and that self-satisfied twitch of his lips sets something off in Louis.

“Can I tell you a story?” he asks.

“About your Omega mother? Sure,” Stephanopolis says. Over his shoulder, a motion catches Louis’ eye. It’s Emma, making a large ‘X’ with her forearms and shaking her head so wildly, that several locks of hair have loosened from her bun.

“When I was a little boy, the Indian restaurant around the block from our flat had a large sign on it that said, ‘NO SERVICE FOR UNBONDED OMEGAS.’ You remember when that kind of thing used to be commonplace? People thought it was for the good of everyone, I know, especially for the unbonded Os themselves. Well, I love curry and so my mum- who you can see in the video has a very Omega look to her, soft and small, maybe even a little frail- would wear this bulky jacket with shoulder pads she’d sewed in herself and these chunky two-inch heels and she’d walk straight by that sign, into the restaurant and up to the cash register where she’d pick up our order. We never ate inside the restaurant that I can remember, but we had takeaway several times a month. It was my favorite food and so my mum, God bless her, wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of me having it. That’s the kind of mum she was- erm, _is._ She still _is_ that way.”

Stephanopolis blinks at Louis, lips parted, but silent. Emma has settled, but she doesn’t look happy. Louis’ heart is pounding.

Finally, Stephanopolis says, “What a heartwarming story. With that, we’ll take a break. When we come back, Louis performs his breakout hit, the tune that’s topped charts worldwide, ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’”


	3. Chapter 3

Harry wakes before his alarm, sun pouring in through his hotel windows. He’d forgotten to shut the heavy curtain before climbing into bed last night. He wipes his eyes and looks at his phone, limbs still heavy with sleep.

Yesterday had been too long. He’d followed Nick and Sam for significant portions of their promo runs leading up to and following their coming outs, but he’d never spent an entire day chasing them around a foreign city. And he’d always been able to retreat back to his own cosy flat after an exhausting press conference or media junket.

He has three messages from Louis.

_9am?_

_10? 11?_

_Sleep well._

It’s 5:30am, now, and even though he’d been asleep by 9pm the night before, Harry still feels exhausted. He’d never been good with jet lag. He has no idea how Louis jets about all over the world like he does.

He texts back. _Whenever you’re awake, I’m ready._

In the bathroom, he stands in front of the mirror for a minute or two examining his body. He looks pale, hasn’t spent any time in the sun this summer. He had to forego his holiday when he agreed to consult with Louis’ team.

He’s put on a little weight around the middle. A few months ago, he’d had at least a four-pack standing out below his butterfly tattoo. He traces a finger over its wings. He wants another tattoo. A bird, maybe.

In the shower, he reaches down to tug at his cock. The last few times he and Louis had been alone together had felt dangerously intimate.

The soft, small _heat_ of Louis’ body pressed into Harry’s side.

The tickle of Louis’ fine hair against Harry’s cheek.

The trill of Louis’ laughter trickling down Harry’s spine.

The wiggle of Louis’ bum against the leather couch, not inches away from Harry’s cock.

The smooth skin of Louis’ neck against Harry’s nose and the rich scent wrapping around him and drawing him in.

Harry groans, balls drawing up. He’d been overwhelmed by the urge to wet the hollow beneath Louis’ ear with the tip of his tongue and then sink his teeth into it, to slide his hand up Louis’ thigh and lay his palm flat over Louis’ bulge, to ask Louis if he was as wet and hot for Harry as he smelled.

Harry comes, pulsing hot and white over his fist, the hot water of the shower beating against his back.

It’s unprofessional to get off thinking of Louis. He knows it. He knew it two days ago, when he’d done it, the shower in his flat growing cold all the while. He knew it two weeks ago, the first time he’d done it after an evening watching Louis Tomlinson concert footage.

He thinks it would be more unprofessional to spend the entirety of their “practice” date too aroused to think properly. Pervert prevention.

God, _fuck_. This isn’t who he is. He’s never been like this before.

Harry leans his head against the tile wall and laughs, sadly, helplessly. What the fuck.

~

Harry’s toweling his hair dry and staring at his mess of a suitcase when he hears a _tap tap tap_ on his door. He pulls the towel around his waist and heads over to the door to peek out the eyehole.

Louis stands in the hallway looking incredibly put together, given that it’s before six in the morning. He’s wearing white trousers and a jean jacket, a beanie covering his head and pair of sunglasses tucked into the front of his blue and white striped shirt.

Harry feels himself smile even before he opens the door.

Louis jaw drops. Then, his eyebrows jump and he brushes past Harry into the room, heading straight for Harry’s open suitcase.

“I thought you were ready!” he says, pulling out a pair of blue boxers, sniffing them and then throwing them at Harry.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake for hours. You sent me a text at one am.” Harry slips on the cotton pants while Louis’ back is turned.

“Do you only shop at secondhand stores on the poor side of town?” Louis asks. He’s tossing shirt after shirt after shirt into a pile beside Harry’s suitcase.

“Yeah,” Harry answers.

“You fucking would. Of course, I’d find myself fake-dating the only Alpha in the world who doesn’t give two shits about fashion,” Louis mutters, examining the collar of Harry’s green polo.

“Hey, I care about fashion,” Harry lies. “I’m actually a trendsetter. I wore Hawaiian shirts before they were cool.”

“They’ve never been cool,” Louis says, tossing him the polo.

“Shows how much _you_ know about fashion. And why do you look so offended by this shirt?” Harry asks, pulling it over his head. “Niall Horan wears shirts like this all the time.”

Louis turns around and put his hands on his hips. “Are you a professional golfer?”

“No,” Harry draws out the word.

“No, you are not,” Louis agrees. “So polo is not _fashionable_. But I will say it’s better than this…” He holds out a pink, fluttery blouse covered in tiny flowers.

Harry’s never actually worn the thing out. He’d found it on a rack by the dressing rooms and suspects that it was meant for a woman, but it fits him and he likes it.

“Come on,” Harry murmurs. “You know that’s très sexy.”

Louis gives the shirt a second considering look and shrugs. His movements are careful, almost gentle, as he sticks it back into the suitcase.

“Don’t you have trousers?” Louis asks, again digging in the case.

“No,” Harry tells him. “Only the dressy pair I wore yesterday. It’s too hot for trousers.”

Louis holds up a pair of cargo shorts. “I guess these will have to do.”

As Harry finishes dressing, Louis throws his clothes back into the suitcase and zips it up with a little bit of muscle. Then, he sits atop it.

The two of them look at each other for a long moment. Harry has no idea what to do next. Luckily, Louis has it all sorted.

“So,” he begins. “I thought we’d pick up coffee at the Starbucks in the lobby and then take stroll through the city before the tourists come out in full force. I’ve had Emma make us reservations for breakfast at this place Liam recommended, so we can end up there. A car, already loaded up with our luggage, will pick us up at eleven. How does that sound to you?”

Perfect.

~

Louis’ is bouncing on the balls of his feet as they wait in line at the Starbucks. Harry thinks about draping a heavy arm around Louis’ shoulders and tucking him tight to his side to calm him. That seems forward, and someone who recognizes Louis might see them.

The line is long, the two workers moving slowly, as though their own doses of caffeine haven’t yet kicked in. Louis crosses and uncrosses his arms. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then, he resumes bouncing.

Harry reaches down to wrap his thumb and forefinger around one of Louis wrists and squeezes. Louis freezes and Harry drops his hand, flushing hot. While subtle enough to be missed by an observer, the gesture is familial, a common way Alpha parents keep their children and partners at ease and in check.

“Sorry,” he and Louis say at the same time.

Louis chuckles. “I know I’m a little jumpy. You’re good.”

Harry does not feel good. He remembers his mum sobbing as she explained to his father how patronized she felt when he used the same gesture on her, especially in public.

“I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“It’s fine. This’ll be my third cup of tea since waking.” Softer, he adds, “Obviously, I’m nervous.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have…”

Louis meets Harry’s gaze, wearing a small smile. He draws a breath. “Actually, I think it might have helped.”

 

Harry swallows, fingertips suddenly tingling. He balls the offending hand into a fist and pushes the exchange from his mind. “So you want tea?”

Louis nods. “And you’re buying it since you’re not nearly rich enough to afford our breakfast.”

Harry pouts. “I think I can afford two plates of eggs and bacon.”

Louis smirks. “You’re getting drinks. I’m getting the meal. It’s already been decided.”

“By you?”

“By me.”

Harry laughs.

When they reach the register, Louis orders first and then, when the barista reads him his total, he leans in to waggle his eyebrows and nod backwards toward Harry, as he says, “I’m on that knothead’s bill.”

“Hey,” Harry says, not the least bit offended. He’s grinning and he knows it. Louis wants people to know that they’re on a date.

 _A practice date_ , he reminds himself.

When they’re walking down the street, Louis with his tea and Harry with something much sweeter, Louis asks, “Have you ever been to New York City before?”

Harry has not.

Louis launches into a story about his first trip to the Big Apple. He tells Harry about how he and Aiden, an X Factor contestant from his season, had gotten lost when they’d insisted on walking from their concert venue to the hotel where they were staying. Somehow they’d ended up at the opposite end of the island and were climbing a jungle gym in an empty, moonlit park waiting for the cab they’d called to show up when-

Harry never gets to hear what happened next because Louis cuts off abruptly. Harry follows his gaze to a white haired A/O couple seated on a bench several yards away. The O is dressed in all black with a colorful scarf wrapped around her neck. Harry’s no fashion expert- as Louis’d been so quick to point out earlier- but he can tell from their outfits that they are quite wealthy.

The O’s head rests against the A’s shoulder and her eyes are closed. His lips are moving and Harry thinks he might reading the paper aloud to her.

Something warm blooms in the pit of Harry’s belly as he watches them.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says.

They’ve stopped walking, Harry realizes.

Louis turns toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’ve gone about this all wrong. I should have let you decide where to go and what to do. I should let you do some of the talking. Is there somewhere you want us to go for breakfast? Or do you even want to do breakfast at all? Maybe you had planned for us to explore the Met or take a train up to Brooklyn? God, no. Don’t listen to me. What do you want?”

Louis’ face looks stricken, his brows drawn together, lips small and tight.

“Hey.” Harry touches the back of Louis’ hand with his finger tips. “May I?”

Louis nods and Harry lets his whole fist wrap round Louis’ wrist this time. Louis shudders out a breath.

“This is a great date, Louis. I love coffee and walking. I’ve never been to New York City and just wandering the streets is a great way to get to know a new place. And a new person.” He pauses and a story pops into his head. “The first time I went to London with my dad, we did the same thing. Only then I was drinking hot chocolate. He might have had some issues as a father, but he didn’t want me to stunt my growth. Although, I read an article recently saying caffeine may not do that after all. Apparently the studies…”

He trails off when he sees Louis’ lips begin to twitch up into a smile and then a laugh. “You’re really okay with this? As an Alpha?” Louis clarifies.

Though he’s posed the statement as a question, the sparkle in his eyes tells Harry that he’s been adequately reassured and now he’s just fishing for compliments.

“Pudding,” Harry says, laying on the first syllable. “Do you even care?”

This time Louis barks out a laugh. “You know what?” Louis asks. “No, I do not.” He pulls out of Harry’s grasp and quickens his pace.

Harry races to catch him and he immediately slows. “In all seriousness, I do care. This is practice, for future dates with Kendall, so I do want to do things your way.” He waggles his eyebrow. “The Alpha way.”

That’s right. Harry remembers. This is supposed to be practice. So that Louis feels comfortable with an Alpha in a romantic-ish setting.

“Can I hold your hand?” Harry asks.

Louis looks up at Harry through his fringe and then reaches over to thread their fingers together.

“Is this alright?” Louis leans closer. “Or do you like being on the bottom?”

Harry laughs, loud, so loud a woman in front of them glances over shoulder. He licks his lips and squeezes Louis hand tight. “This is good.”

The special restaurant Louis’ chosen for them, the one he’d said Harry wouldn’t be able to afford, turns out to be a narrow hole-in-the-wall diner with only a bar. The air is thick with grease but the counter is spotless and the line cook who greets them wears a smile. He gestures to two empty seats at very back end of the bar, the only empty seats together, Harry realizes. “What can I do you for?”

“I’ll have the special,” Louis says, like he’s a regular.

The man nods curtly. “And for you, sir?”

Harry looks at around. He doesn’t see a menu. A blackboard above the coffee pot reads, _Breakfast Special_ _$4.39._

“The same,” Harry ventures.

As soon as the man’s back is turned, Louis cracks up. “You’ve clearly never slummed it like this before.”

Harry looks out at the street. Across the road is twenty story building, the bottom of which advertises a Subway and an Au Bon Pain. “We’re not slumming it.”

“That’s not what your face said when you realized there were no menus.”

Harry realizes something. “With that water you bought, our Starbucks cost _more_ than this. You said…”

Louis shrugs. “I couldn’t offend your Alpha sensibilities by outspending you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Harry reassures him.

Louis laughs and pokes him in the forearm. “You want to be my kept man?”

Harry sputters. “That’s not what I meant.” But then he considers it. He’d be able to live in luxury, spending most of his free time reading, writing, and revising. Not a bad life. He supposes he’d also be fucking Louis Tomlinson.

But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he stamps it out.

Except that it’s this exact moment when Louis’ foot slips over to rest on top of his underneath the bar. He meets Louis’ gaze. Neither of them breathe.

The clatter of dishes snaps them free. The ‘Breakfast Special’ turns out to be scrambled eggs, white toast drenched in butter and a thick slice of ham. Harry’s pleased. He wonders if it’s on Louis’ diet. Probably not when he isn’t touring.

Louis digs in without complaint.

“How did you find this place?” Harry asks. “Liam suggested it? Really?”

Louis winks at him.

~

They leave the diner holding hands. Louis wears his sunglass and pulls his beanie on low.

“Don’t you think that makes you look _more_ like a celebrity? Pudding?”

Harry can feel the heat of his glare, even if he can’t see it. “We’re in New York City, Styles. No one cares. We were probably dining next to Jay-Z and Beyonce.”

“We did not dine next to Jay-Z and Beyonce.” They did not. Louis shrugs.

The car is waiting at the end of the block, just like Louis said it would be and as soon as they’re inside, Louis drops his hand. As quick as he’d dropped Kendall’s two nights before. The thought unsettles Harry and he tells himself that it’s because he was supposed to be helping Louis feel more comfortable and surely that’s a sign of continued _discomfort._

“How did it go?” Harry asks.

Louis removes his sunglasses and blinks at Harry, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheeks. “What?”

“The practice date. Do you feel a little more comfortable?”

Louis smiles. “A little. I’m willing to try it again with Kendall. But we may need more practice. Being myself around you, like, it really feels good. Gives me confidence.” He touches his fringe.

“If you say so.” Harry frowns. For some reason, the Louis he’d spent the morning with has disappeared behind the front of a different, more cheerful, less teasing, showman-like Louis. The Louis he’d seen on Good Morning America, maybe.

Louis’ face softens. “Thank you,” he says. “I mean it.”

That, Harry can believe.

~

His phone rings on the drive back from Heathrow. He’s tired- he barely slept at all during the flight- and he doesn’t feel like chatting. Still, he finds himself answering almost immediately.

“Harry Styles,” he answers.

“Harry!” It’s his father. _Shit_. He’d have never answered if he’d known. “What are you up to these days?”

“I’m actually just getting back from a work trip, so I can’t really talk right now.” Harry wants to slam his front door for emphasis, but he’s still twenty minutes away from his flat.

“Where is it that you’re working?”

“Oh, the same place,” Harry stalls.

“Ah, yes. But you never told me the name of the company or what you were doing for them. Even though you’ve emailed me a request for expanded access to the database.”

“I’m sure I did,” Harry lies. He’s not above lying to his dad. His mum he’s usually better about, but she’s more amenable to being diverted off topic. Not his dad.

“You didn’t. But let’s say you had. Couldn’t hurt to refresh my memory.” He sounds cheerful. Fake. Harry hates him.

“No.”

“Harry, son, I’m supposed to be keeping a much tighter hand on that data.”

Harry groans. This is the one thing that his dad has to hold over him these days. Harry’d been thinking about re-trying to befriend the other professor working on the project. Or maybe one of his dad’s newer grad students.

“You’re asking for access to the section on Alpha/Omega relationships. Why do you want to know about them, anyway? You’ve sworn up and down since you were ten years old that you’d never bond to an Omega. So I doubt it’s personal…”

The way his voice trails off- he’s, absolutely, certain it’s personal.

“It’s for work,” Harry snaps. Which is a mistake.

“What kind of work could you possibly be doing that relates to Alpha/Omega relationships?”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk with you about my work.” He doesn’t think his father and his work belong in the same part of his brain, let alone in the same conversation. Telling his dad what he does for a living is an invitation for chaos. What if his dad got it into his head to interview Nick? Or worse Louis? Yeah, no.

“I knew you’d make a good MI6 agent. Strong and smart, like your father.”

“I’m not James Bond.”

They’ve had this conversation before as well and Harry knows his father’s next line by rote. They both say, “But that’s what you’d say if you were James Bond, isn’t it?”

“Dad, I have to go,” Harry says because he does. Emotionally, he can’t bear to do this.

“I can’t send you that data unless you tell me where you work. I need the information for my grant, Haz.” His dad sounds sincere, sad.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” his father says.

Harry stays on the line for a minute or two listening to the quiet breathing on the other end before he hangs up.

Two hours later, his father emails him everything he’d asked for.

#

A heaviness settles in the pit of Louis’ stomach as he watches Harry stride away toward baggage claim. Louis’ stuck in the VIP waiting area for a few minutes, as the plane touched down forty minutes early and the paps haven’t arrived yet. They’re meant to catch him, sleep-rumpled and carrying his own bag.

The feeling dissipates almost immediately, though, as he recalls their “practice” date, particularly Harry’s stupid dimples popping as they’d watched each other in the sip midday cocktails in a VIP lounge at JFK. Louis had been careful to temper the smile he’d thrown him in return. He wanted to maintain the illusion that their outing had been for practice after all.

But now that Harry’s disappeared, Louis gives in to the giddy feeling that’s been bubbling up in him all morning. He allows himself to smile as he thinks about walking with Harry, talking with Harry, eating with Harry, holding Harry’s hand. It had been easy, fun. As far as Louis could tell, Harry needed someone to boss him about a bit. Tease him. Get him a little worked up.

Louis is still grinning when he greets David as he hops into the car, camera flashing in the distance (though not so distant that Louis can’t spot them and send them a pointed look).

His mum had called while he was in flight and he listens to her message. Her tone is hushed and urgent. She’d known he wouldn’t get the message until he touched down but she wanted to hear from him _straight away_. She had a situation on her hands.

He dials her number and takes a few deep breaths in preparation as he waits for her to pick up.

“Louis,” She says. “Thank god.”

“Hi, mum,” he says, keeping his tone light, almost playful.

“Louis, the reporters just won’t stop. They were outside the kids’ school yesterday. I’m certain that’s illegal, taking photos of minors. Isn’t that illegal? Should be! You _know_ how perverted some Alphas can be.”

That _is_ alarming. It’d been like that for a bit early on, after Louis placed second on the X Factor, reporters digging into his family’s history and tracking down anyone who’d ever met Louis for an ‘exclusive’ interview with ‘a source close to the star.’ It’s tapered off, though, as safety precautions had been put in place, tabloids bought off, and friends and family members media trained and contractually bound to silence.

 _“_ I’m not sure about the law on that, mum. But you know you’re supposed to call Rodger about this, not me. I mean, if you want I can call Rodger…” Rodger works with the label and Louis’ lawyer on managing out of hand tabloids and paps and he and Louis’ mum have been in contact in similar situations.

“I already called Rodger. I called him the minute I saw those nasty vultures. But they probably already picked up their story and are selling it on the celebrity black-market.” She sounds huffy.

“The celebrity black-market?” Like he’s a kidney or a tiger or some sort of exotic drug.

“You know what I’m talking about. The place where crazy stalkers buy and sell sweat-soaked towels from your concerts and napkins you’ve used at restaurants.”

“People don’t do that, mum,” Louis says. At least, he doesn’t think they do. Not often, anyway.

“Ha! Shows how much time you’ve spent googling yourself.”

Louis rolls his eyes. She’s not supposed to be googling him either. She’d agreed to stop two years back after she’d called him in tears to tell him ‘congratulations’ and ‘yes, she _was_ ready to be a grandma.’ Turns out some blogger had an entirely plausible story- that many other bloggers bought into- about him being the father of her unborn child. Or, the story was plausible if you didn’t know that Louis was _gay_ , which his mother _did._

(He comes by his dramatics honestly.)

The line is silent for a moment.

“I know I said it right after filming, but I just- thank you, mum,” he says.

“I would do a lot more than that.” Her voice is soft. “I know I’ve encouraged you to hide from the start, but I think this is the right thing to do. Your numbers are good, but more importantly, you’ve looked so _happy_. You’ve worked so hard for this- we both have. You deserve a little happiness.”

“I’ve had a lot of happiness since the X Factor. This isn’t the first time I’ve been happy,” Louis says, even though he knows what she means.

“I know, baby, but this is different.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, thinking of feel of Harry’s damp palm pressed against his own. “It is.”

Then, he says, “So how are the kids? How’s your man?”

~

Louis goes on a liking spree on Twitter. It’s one of the few social media functions that his team doesn’t censor. He likes a tweet about Zayn being a knothead. And then another about Kendall and him looking hot together. And then a third about his mum being a queen.

A few minutes later, he receives a text from Emma. _You were supposed to wait until I gave the go ahead_.

Louis texts back, _Oops!_

The next morning he posts a sleepy bedroom pic on Instagram and Kendall’s account likes it almost immediately. They trend on Twitter for a while (#KouisisKute), a truly terrible hashtag that Jim probably thought up to piss Louis off.

That afternoon Harry texts for the first time since they arrived back in the UK, not that Louis has been waiting for it or anything.

_You’re really getting into this now._

Louis texts him back the upside down smiley face.

~

Louis finds another excuse to text him the next day (outside of his usual good morning emoji).

_Do you think it’d be too much to like a bunch of her friends’ pics on IG? What about following their accounts?_

_Sure. But don’t go overboard. Don’t want people to think you’re interested in them instead._

A few hours later, Louis asks,

_Any idea if this girl is actually dating Kendall? The O?_

_Why do you care? Do YOU like HER?_

_No. I told you I’m not an Olo._

_I mean KENDALL_

_Oh,_ and then _No._

Over the following week, they keep up a steady stream of texts. They’d been in touch before the video release, but their exchanges had been shorter and less consistent. Also, on about day four, Louis gives up the pretense that his texts have anything to do with work or presentation.

So when Louis walks in to the meeting room for a PR check-in two weeks after the release of the music video the first thing he says is, “Sugar? Really, Styles? Sugar in your morning tea? We’re through.”

Harry jerks his head up from whatever he’s reading on his phone and smiles. “You did get my text this morning.”

Then he frowns, glancing around the table. Louis can read his thoughts. Harry wants to keep their relationship professional and a conversation about tea in this setting shows just how far they’ve gotten off track.

He shouldn’t’ve said anything about it. He’d just been so floored by Harry’s message:  _Leaving. Have to stop for tea on my way. Ran out of sugar. :( :( :( ._ Louis doesn’t approve of people who put sugar in their tea. Throws off the whole flavor palette.

He tries to catch Harry’s eye and reassure him somehow that they haven’t done anything wrong, but Harry’s buried in his phone again.

Harry’s able to avoid looking at or speaking directly to Louis for the entirety of the meeting, an amazing feat as Louis addresses him as often as he can without alerting the suspicions of the others at the table.

Everyone agrees that the plan is working spectacularly- better than anyone thought, in fact. Fans are engaged. They love the video. For the most part, they like Kendall. People outside his usual demographic are taking a second look at him. The backlash has been minimal, both against his mother and against the heavy-handed hinting at the fact that Louis himself might be an O.

These days, no one wants to look like behind the times on these issues. It’s almost worse than looking like a wet-ass. Everyone congratulates Harry, but he never smiles. Instead, he spends the meeting with his brow furrowed and his gaze distant.

It’s bad enough that Emma even pushes him a lemon scone and asks, “Harry, are you feeling okay?”

Harry blinks back at her and rubs his temples. “Headache,” he explains, declining the pastry with a shake of his head.

It’s then that Louis notices he hasn’t got any tea.

After the meeting, Louis corners Harry in the hallway. “What’s going on with you? Did you miss your tea?”

Harry nods. “Traffic was bad.” He’s still avoiding Louis’ gaze.

“You want to fetch a cuppa with me?” Louis offers. He has an appointment with his trainer in two hours and meeting with someone from Adidas in the evening, but right now he’s free.

Harry begins to shake his head, “I think-“

Louis’ heart skips a beat and he says, “It’s important. I have a couple of questions for you about the upcoming plans. For me and Kendall?”

Finally, Harry meets his Louis’ eyes. “What are they? You can ask them now.”

“No, you can’t wait another twenty minutes for tea. Let’s go. We can talk and walk. Come on.” Louis begins to make his way toward the lifts, Harry rushing to catch up.

“What are your-“

Louis cuts him off. He can’t have Harry rushing him to the questions because Louis hasn’t thought them up yet. “I am kind of hungry, actually. What if we found a place to eat? I think there’s a breakfast spot a few blocks over. I’m going to let David know that’s where we’ll be.”

He pulls out his phone, as they step into the lift. Harry remains quiet and when Louis looks up from his text Harry’s watching him closely. He feels himself go hot and he hopes his tan hides the blush.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“Oh, have you?” Humor lilts Harry’s tone and Louis can see the hint of his dimples. The lift dings and they step out in the lobby.

“Yeah, about my next date with Kendall.”

“The VMA pre-parties and after parties,” Harry supplies. This had been the topic of the second half of the meeting and all the questions Louis _actually_ had about the team’s expectation for that date had been well-covered.

Louis nods. “I’m pretty nervous about it.”

The street around them is noisy and Louis has to walk close to be heard. He’s tempted to link their hands together, as they’d done in New York, but he doesn’t think Harry would react well to it.

“You are? You seemed very excited to move forward on social media this week,” Harry comments. This is true. Louis supposes that excitement would be hard for Harry to miss given the steady stream of questions he’d been texting Harry about each comment and like.

“That’s different than spending time with her in person, you know?” He nods to a shop a few meters in front of them. “Let’s go in here. They know me.”

Harry follows him inside.

The owner is out on the floor and he happily allows Louis and Harry to skip the out-the-door-lunch-rush-line, with a not-at-all-causal, _you should check out our Twitter and like our page_.

They slip in on opposite sides of a booth and Louis drums his fingers against the wooden tabletop as he searches for a way to move the conversation forward. Harry’s hand reaches out and his fingers wrap around Louis’ wrist.

The fluttering of Louis’ heart stops and he’s filled up with a cosy kind of warmth. The air smells like coconut. Harry’s eyes are serious, but kind as he regards Louis.

“Will you take me on another practice date?” Louis asks.

Harry stiffens, but doesn’t let go of Louis’ wrist. Instead, his grip tightens.

“Like, to a club? Maybe the one we went to before. I want to do the ‘date’ thing with a little alcohol in me, maybe dance a bit. I think that’ll help me feel more settled about the VMA parties. When we went out before- that was helpful, but it was really quiet, not at all like the setting Kendall and I will actually be papped in.”

It’s another shit excuse to go out with Harry and Louis’ a little embarrassed to be making it. Last week the Sun had called Louis ‘the hottest bachelor in the country- maybe the world.’ He should be able to ask the guy he likes to go out dancing with this kind of subterfuge.

Harry bites his lip, fingers still pressing hard at Louis’ pulse. “You really think that would help?”

Louis widens his eyes and nods enthusiastically.

Harry nods sharply. “Okay.”

Louis swallows. “Good.”

Silence hangs heavy between.

“Do you have other questions?” Harry asks.

He lets go of Louis’ wrist and Louis folds his hands underneath the table. “Did you watch the Bachelor last night?” he asks.

Harry laughs. And then he nods.

Louis leans toward him, waggling his eyebrows. “I told you that she’d go home this week, didn’t I?”

#

“I’m well. Lola’s well. The cat is well. But you already know all this because we spoke two days ago. You never call me this often unless you want something. Is it mum? Dad? What is it?”

Harry has Amelia on speaker phone. “Have you ever been on a date with an Alpha? What was it like?”

Amelia laughs and doesn’t answer.

“Well?” Harry prompts.

“You never ask me about my love life.”

“I am now,” Harry says. He’s never really seen the need. Harry doesn’t like it when other people ask about his love life. Why would ask about someone else’s unless he had a very good reason? Which, he does right now; he’d just rather not share it with Amelia.

“Are you interested in an O? Have you been asked on out on a date?” She’s practically squealing. He wouldn’t have guessed that she bought into the A/O fairytale romance trope.

“I’m curious for work-related reasons,” he admits grudgingly.

“No.” Her voice is sharp. “No, Harry, no. I refused to be dad’s experiment and I won’t be yours either. Sorry.”

“It’s not part of an experiment. It’s not for scientific research, at all. I have a very practical work problem related to A/O dating and I’m just curious how it’s gone for you in the past.”

“A practical problem related to A/O dating? If you explain to me the exact nature of the problem, I’ll see if I can help,” she says.

“It’s confidential,” Harry tells her. Iron fills his mouth and he realizes he’s bitten his cuticle to the quick. It’s bleeding a little.

“Sorry,” she says. “I can’t help. But to answer your first question. I’ve been on lots of dates with lots of Alphas, but I’m not seeing anyone seriously right now. It’s hard with a kid, you know?”

“I could babysit for you, if you’d like. The offer always stands,” Harry reminds her.

“You bailed on me last time.”

“There was an emergency at work. I had to leave the country on twenty-four hours notice,” Harry says.

“I wish you’d tell me what you do. Sounds very important. Dad told me once that you were basically James Bond. I told him you don’t have a thick enough knot for that kind of work.”

Harry chokes out a laugh. Amelia’s not vulgar very often. In fact, he’s only heard her cuss in relation to their father.

“Dad doesn’t know what I do either. It’s _highly_ confidential. But I’m no James Bond.”

“Q then?” Amelia presses.

“Are you sure you won’t tell me about your dates? I could really use the information.”

“You know the deal.”

“Alright, then. I’ll just have to dig elsewhere.” He thinks about the data from his father. “You’re a very ungrateful baby sister.”

“You’re a workaholic and an unreliable big brother.”

Her comment hangs in the air and Harry suspects they’re both thinking about their father. Harry’s not like him, though. He’s not.

~

The information Harry really wants has little to do with romance or even dating, per se. He’s analyzed his father’s data on that account.

Harry wants to know how quickly A/O relationships become sexually active. On average.

He’s suspects it’s early on- the arousal levels both partners experience must be statistically higher than in non-scenters or Olo or Alas. He doesn’t have any data on that and isn’t sure how he’d measure it to find out. But he figures it has to be true.

And not simply based on his own experience. It seems intuitive scientifically because, well, pheromones. That’s not to say non-A/O couples don’t have pheromones. He just can’t believe that they’re nearly as strong.

Okay, maybe he’s basing this a _tiny_ bit on his own personal experience.

He wants to help Louis. It’s his _job_ to help Louis. But he’s also very attracted to Louis and he suspects that Louis feels the same. With a little alcohol in them and their bodies pressed together on the dance floor, Harry worries that temptation might overwhelm them.

He doesn’t have a very good track record of keeping his hands off of Louis. After their luncheon the other day, he’d slipped a hand underneath Louis’ jacket, slung his arm across the small of Louis’ back, and wrapped his fingers around the flesh of Louis’ hip.

As they’d made their way to the front of the restaurant and out to the kerb, he could have sworn he smelled a telltale floral scent wafting around them. He’d only barely restrained himself from from burying his face in Louis’ neck.

He’d say that the probability of he and Louis engaging in some sort of sexual behavior during or after their date is very, _very_ high.

Which would be… very unprofessional. Probably unethical, too, though he’s not sure on whom the blame would fall.

He’d wager that it’s nearly inevitable. Statistically speaking.

However, Harry’s never been one to believe himself confined to a norm. He has very well developed executive function. He can control himself. When he wants to.

~

Louis buys the first round of drinks from the bar and then leads Harry to a tall table a few yards from the packed dance floor.

Harry hasn’t been out dancing since the time with Louis and Nick. He closes his eyes and feels the thrum of the music in his body. He’d missed it.

Another reason he shouldn’t have taken Louis up on this suggestion. They could have gone to a concert instead or dinner theater or a comedy.

Not the club.

Louis smiles at him from across the table, laying his hand flat and open atop it, inviting Harry’s touch. Harry places his hand in Louis’.

“This is not what it will be like with Kendall,” Harry says. “You’ll have to mingle. There’ll be photographers everywhere. The drinks will be fancier.”

“But we will be drinking. And we will be dancing. And we’ll be surrounded by other scenters doing the same,” Louis replies.

“What are you worried will happen?” Harry asks. His palm feels sticky and he considers pulling free of Louis touch, but when he moves to do so, Louis flexes, holding him fast.

“Honestly? I’m worried people will think it’s a hoax. That I’ll come off as too O, or maybe not O enough, you know? That people will see through me and comment on it.”

 _It is a hoax_ , Harry thinks. But that’s not completely true. Louis _is_ an O. The way he’s tilting his chin leaves little room for doubt. “You’ll do fine.”

“I’m also worried.” Louis takes a breath and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m also worried that I’ll get spooked and run before I can be seen. I don’t want to break my contract. But this is really, _really_ fucking scary.”

Harry nods, and lets his thumb caress the back of Louis’ hand. It’s a little disconcerting to see Louis so open with him. “You’re really brave and really charming.”

A smile blossoms on Louis’ face, wiping away his uncertainty. Harry doesn’t think he’s fronting, not this time. He looks genuinely pleased by Harry’s compliment.

“Remember the first time we came here together?” Louis asks.

Harry nods. “You hated me.”

“I did.” Louis smirks. “Don’t hate you now.”

Harry takes a sip of his drink. “Good. I don’t hate you, either.”

Louis licks his lips, smacking them a bit. They’re shinier than usual. Harry thinks he might be wearing lip gloss and wishes he could test the theory, taste the flavor of it on his own lips.

“Do you want to dance? I know you enjoy letting go.” In the low light of the club, Harry can’t be sure, but he thinks Louis’ pupils are already blown wide with arousal.

Harry chews his lip. “This is work,” he says. But it is and it isn’t. It’s supposed to feel like a date.

“Then let’s get to it.” Louis squeezes his hand and tugs him out into the sea of bodies.

Harry faces Louis in the crowd. Though he’s pressed in from behind- someone’s ass hot against his own as it was sways to the beat- Harry keeps a foot or two of space between them. _Professional,_ he chants to himself, _be a professional_.

But then eighteen inches becomes twelve becomes ten becomes six. Louis reaches up to wind his hands around Harry’s neck. He nuzzles Harry’s cheek and Harry thinks, _he’s on his tiptoes._

And then all Harry can think is _flowers, summer flowers_. He breathes deeply and when he exhales against Louis’ skin, Louis tips his head back to give Harry better access. Harry leans in and noses at Louis’ throat. His hands, he realizes suddenly, are holding Louis’ hips.

“Your scent.” Louis’ mouth is on Harry’s ear and the flutter of his lips sends a chill down Harry’s spine. “ _Fuck.”_

Harry has no idea what music is playing. He has no idea who else is around them. Hell, he even has no idea what he’s doing with his body. He’s dizzy with _Louislouislouis_.

Louis slips a leg between Harry’s and rocks his hips. He’s hard. They both are.

The music continues but they’re not dancing.

Louis lips slide downward to bite at Harry’s neck. Harry feels Louis take a deep breath and let it go.

Pressing his lips against Louis’ ear, he says, “Smell something you like?”

Louis’ teeth nip at him, and a shock shudders through his body.

His hands slip down to Louis’ ass. _He’s slick,_ Harry thinks. He must be if he smells this strongly. He must be wet and ready for Harry’s cock. Harry’s knot. Harry ruts again.

Louis mouth moves over Harry’s jaw and chin, stopping a breath away from Harry’s mouth. Cherries. His lipgloss will taste like cherries. Harry’s leaning- because he loves cherries, their sweet-sour bite- when he’s stopped by the movement of Louis’ lips. He’s saying something but Harry can’t hear what it is, not over the thrum of the music and the rush of blood in his ears.

“What?”

Louis presses his mouth to Harry’s ear again. It’s wetter and stickier now. “Let’s get out of here.”

Harry’s fingers dig into Louis’ ass.

“Okay,” he says.

Harry links their hands together and lets Louis lead the way through the mess of bodies and out the back door of the club. In the alley, Louis withdraws his phone. Even a few feet away in the open air of the night, Harry can still smell him.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Harry says.

“Do you want to go back inside?” Louis asks, glancing up from the screen. His face is faintly illuminated by its light, casting him in an alien glow. “Weren’t you finished dancing?”

Harry laughs. “We barely started dancing.”

“We don’t have to leave,” Louis says. His gaze is steady but there’s a tremble to his fingers.

“I don’t know that we should leave together,” Harry clarifies.

Louis steps closer and lifts his chin.

Harry’s cock jumps against the fabric constraining it and he almost whines.

“I know you want me,” Louis says.

“I do,” Harry admits. “But we work together. This is unprofessional.”

“Who cares if it’s unprofessional?” Louis explodes. “Why does that matter? I like you. You like me. I _trust_ you. It’s not like there are many people I can get off with- not that I trust, anyway.”

Harry remembers suddenly what he’d said to Nick that first time they’d gone out. Louis has never been in a relationship before. Of course, Harry knows that he hasn’t been with an Alpha, not romantically anyway. That’s the premise of their whole ‘practice’ dating thing. But he hasn’t thought much about Louis’ sexual experience, hasn’t allowed himself that particularly indiscretion.

“There must be ways for you to find partners for a hook-up,” Harry says.

Louis sighs and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t want a random ‘escort’ provided by the label. I want you.”

His chin is tucked now and it takes all the willpower Harry has not to reach for him. “Why?”

“You’re smart and you’re honest. You smell better than anything else in the whole world. I’ve felt your cock. Fuck, I’ve felt your _knot._ And I want it. I want _you_.”

That stops Harry cold. He knows it’s impolite, but he reaches down to adjust himself anyway. Louis’ is right. At the base of his cock the very beginning of a knot has formed. That’s not supposed to happen, not outside of actual sex, anyway. It’s _never_ happened to Harry before.

“I want you, too,” he says.

A car pulls up to the kerb. Louis says, “This is us. Come home with me, Harry.”

Harry swallows and nods. “Alright,” he says. “Yeah.”

#

 

Louis can’t believe they’ve made it back to his place with all their clothes on. As soon as they stepped onto the dance floor he’d begun to imagine himself stripping off Harry’s outfit piece by piece, first his clunky brown boots, then his tight black skinny jeans. He’d save the unevenly buttoned sky blue bowling shirt for last.

Despite Louis’ detailed fantasy, they’d kept their hands to themselves in the car, instead engaging in a series of lingering looks. He watched Harry’s gaze zero in on his neck. He couldn’t help the way his head tilted back as though he were a puppet on a string. Then, he watched as Harry’s eyes had moved down over his chest, lingering on his belly before landing heavily on his crotch.

The string seemed to loosen, slowly, Louis’ head lowering again as he followed Harry’s gaze, looking down into his own lap. The bulge in his trousers was obvious. Obscene, especially for an Omega. Harry didn’t seem to mind; he smiled, seeming pleased by it.

Louis has seen enough A/O porn to know that an Omega’s arousal shouldn’t be so obvious. An Omega’s cock isn’t supposed to be the star of the show.

The star of the show is the Alpha’s knot.

Harry’s knot is the first he’s encountered up close and he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been searching it out. Still, the feel of it against his thigh had sent a shock of surprise through him. He’s eager to find out what it looks like, what it feels like on his fingertips, and, maybe, what it tastes like.

They’re standing in his darkened living room, only a few inches between them, and Louis reaches for the hem of his shirt. Harry’s fingers wrap around his forearms, staying him.

“Wait,” Harry says. His face is in shadow and Louis can’t read his expression.

He pulls free, saying, “I’m going to turn on some lights. I want us to be able to see each other.”

Louis twists on the first lamp, illuminating the couch and casting the rest of the room in a soft light.

“Remind me why this is a good idea.” Harry’s arms are folded across his chest, tan against the shimmery blue of his vest. (Where had he even _found_ that item? Louis can’t begin to guess.)

Louis switches on two more lamps, each soft click emphasizing the silence instead of filling it.

“I like you. I’m attracted to you. You like me. You’re attracted to me.”

Harry’s frown deepens and Louis realizes he’s going to have to do better.

“You don’t sleep with everyone you’re attracted to.”

The statement makes Louis’ insides _ache_. “I can’t. I can’t sleep with just anyone. I trust you.”

“I’m contractually bound to keep your secret,” Harry says.

Louis shouldn’t have let this leave the club, he realizes. He should have dragged Harry into the toilet, dropped to his knees, and taken him down right then and there, while he was still loose from the alcohol and the music, while they were both scent-drunk on one another.

He takes a step closer and Harry doesn’t back away despite his dark expression. “Harry, I like you. I want you. I don’t see how this is that different from a ‘practice’ date.”

Harry closes his eyes and then opens them. “You’re not going to be fake-fucking Kendall.”

Louis laughs. “No.” He tilts his head back, a last ditch attempt at pushing Harry over the edge.

It works.

Harry reaches for him, burying his face in Louis’ neck and breathing deeply. His fingertips dig into the small of Louis’ back. Suddenly, Louis feels hot from the inside out, an explosion of desire. His own hands dive into Harry’s hair, tugging him closer.

“Fuck, Louis.” Harry’s open mouth leaves traces of the words on Louis’ skin. “I want you, too.”

Louis steps back from him and pulls his shirt over his head. “You can have me.”

Harry’s eyes cover Louis’ bare skin and his hands are not far behind cupping his pecs, thumb flicking each taut nipple, the tips of his forefingers tracing a line down his sternum to the top of his jeans. Eyes rising to meet Louis’ gaze, a silent plea for permission which Louis grants with a nod of his head, Harry unfastens the top button and slides down the zip.

Louis finishes the job, slipping out of them with a few awkward wiggles and twists. He’s out of practice at undressing sexily. Standing bare in front of Harry, Louis realizes that he hasn’t been naked and hard in front of anyone in years. And he’s never been naked and wet in front of anyone ever.

He thinks about Harry’s earlier confession- that he’s never knotted up before- and considers sharing his own inexperience. Somehow, he doesn’t think it will comfort Harry in the same way Harry’s had him, so instead he strokes himself a few times. It’s meant to be for show, to direct Harry’s attention to the fact that Louis has a lovely cock, especially for an Omega, but the pressure has him groaning and pulling again, harder.

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry chokes out. He’s cupping his own erection through his trousers. “You’re gorgeous. Perfect.”

Louis glances at Harry through his lashes, letting his hand fall back to his side.

He drops to his knees. “Let’s see you, then,” he says. Harry’s fly is all buttons and Louis takes his time undoing them one by one, allowing his the pads of his fingers and the backs of his knuckles to rub against the thick muscle through the fabric.

When he looks up at Harry’s face, his lips are slightly parted and his eyes are mostly shut.

“Louis,” he says. “Come on.”

 

Louis’ lips twist up. _Now_ he’s bossy. Of course.

Louis tugs his trousers over his hips and they pool around his ankles. His scent is different down here, richer and mustier, Louis thinks, as he noses at Harry’s cock.

“You wouldn’t wear any pants.” He forms the words against the side of Harry’s cock.

Harry’s hands come to rest on Louis’ shoulders. “Louis.” His voice is a pitchy whine now and Louis knows exactly what he wants. He takes the tip of Harry’s dick between his lips, tasting it lightly before going deeper and deeper.

Harry groans and Louis’ heart flutters. He likes giving blow jobs. It’s the one sexual act (aside from the good old HJ) he’s quite practiced at, the trick he’s perfected over the last few years. It’s safe, hot, and sexual enough to be excellent wank material for later, but not nearly hot enough to make him wet (to elicit his _scent_ ) in the moment.

Louis knows what he’s doing and he’s eager for Harry to see that. He wants to give Harry the performance of a lifetime. He wants Harry to be ruined for anyone else. He wants Harry to keep coming back to him again and again and again.

Harry’s hands slide under Louis’ arms, slipping easily over sweat damp flesh. And then he’s pulling Louis off his cock and up onto his feet again.

Louis blinks at him, panic rising in his throat. “You didn’t like it? Am I no good?”

What if his previous partners had been lying to him? What if he was no good at all and the boys he’d been with in the past had felt obligated to say otherwise? What if, unbeknownst to Louis, their fake pleasure was part of the contract that David would pull them aside to sign? What if no one had wanted to hurt his feelings?

He feels sick to his stomach. God, he’s such a fucking fake.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. “That was good, but I want to feel _you_.”

“What?” Louis asks, his thoughts derailing.

“You smell so good. I want to touch you. I want to make _you_ feel good.”

Louis suddenly can’t breath. In a good way. His bedroom. He wants Harry in his bedroom. Right now.

Harry keeps talking, voice gaining heat and speed as it rolls along. “Isn’t that what this is about? Doing something you can’t do with someone you don’t trust? I want to know if you taste as good as you smell. I want to know how tight you are, how _wet._ ”

Harry breaks off and Louis’ breath catches up with him. He links their fingers together and pulls Harry down the hallway and into his room. His floor is covered in discarded clothes. He’d been nervous before going out, unsure what to wear. He hadn’t thought to pick up after himself. He hasn’t brought anyone back to his flat… ever. Not for sex, anyway.

He doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed though, because Harry isn’t paying one ounce of attention the state of his room. Every drop of Harry’s attention is zeroed in on Louis himself. He pushes Louis lightly to the bed and then climbs on top of him, staying on his hands and knees, caging Louis in, before leaning down and bringing their mouths together for a heated kiss.

Louis arches up, trying and failing to find friction. He’s never felt so desperate before. Never.

Harry breaks the kiss and sits back, the curve of his ass resting atop Louis’ thighs. It’s too dark in the bedroom and Louis wants to turn on a light, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment by walking across the room.

“Stop thinking so much,” Harry murmurs, thumb reaching out to trace Louis’ brow.

“You’re one to talk,” Louis shoots back.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Harry asks. His voice has gone rough and low, and he slows to almost a halt between every word.

Louis throat feels suddenly dry. He nods.

“I’m thinking about how slick you’re going to feel when I put my fingers inside you. I’m thinking about how sweet you’ll taste when I lick the slick off those very same fingers. I’m thinking about the noises you’ll make when I find that spot right inside you. I’m thinking about the shape of the mark my teeth make when I sink them into the skin of your throat.” He stops and takes a gasping breath.

Louis scoots up the bed, lifts his knees and then parts them. The room is dark, yes, but the light from the hall is bright enough that Louis can see the exact moment when Harry’s eyes move from Louis’ face to his hole.

He can feel the slick leaking out of him and onto the bed. Sometimes, when he wanks, he’ll press a finger inside himself and push it in and out until he’s slippery enough for his finger to slide easily . But it’s never been like this before, _never._

Harry’s voice is a barely discernible rumble when he asks, “May I touch?”

“Do it.” The reply is sharp, a clear demand, but Louis refuses to worry about A/O roles now, not with Harry’s thick forefinger dancing around the edges of his hole and then sliding inside him.

Louis groans and then takes a shaky breath. _Harry._

“Do that again.”

Harry moves his fingers in the exact same motion, in and out, once, firmly, and Louis shudders.

“Again,” he says.

And so Harry repeats the motion again and again and again. Each movement is measured, the same depth, the same force, the same pace, the same little twist at the end. It’s wonderful. And terrible. Perfect and yet not nearly enough.

If Louis were by himself, he’d be going faster, harder, slipping another finger and then another, already chasing an orgasm.

Harry stills and Louis, without thought, lets out a whimper. Harry can’t stop now- he can’t. And he doesn’t. Instead, he inserts a second finger.

Harry’s two fingers move less elegantly than his one, but they are equally effective in their task. Louis writhes, fists bunched in the sheets, plastered in sweat. He doesn’t feel sexy- not like he does on stage, not like he does when in his most sultry photo shoots- he feels like he’s on fire. Not _sexy-hot_ , but burning up in flames.

He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what a heat would feel like.

“God. You’re so- Fuck.“

His eyes blink open. Despite the thrust of Harry’s fingers, Louis’d forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t alone, that Harry was here, too, perched above him, watching. He tries to catch Harry’s eye, but Harry’s not looking at his face. No, Harry’s intent on his fingers, which continue steadily in and out and in and out.

As Louis glances down his own body to see what Harry sees, he notices the pouch of his stomach and the awkward twist of his arm. Farther down, he sees the bony jut of a hip and bulge of knee that surely can’t be sexy. A odd emptiness flashes over him because suddenly he realizes what’s happened. Harry hadn’t wanted Louis to give him a blow job because Harry wasn’t hot for it. He wouldn’t have been able to keep it up for Louis. Better to turn the situation around and get Louis off instead.

Louis’ awkward shuddering and high-pitched moans, his slick hole and sweet scent are probably too much for Harry.

But then Harry slips in a third finger and Louis’ insecurities disappear again, as quickly as they’d come. All his thoughts disappear. He’s so full. Harry’s fingers are thick and his strokes are sure. Each press in ripples through Louis’ body bring him closer and closer.

Harry thrusts in and holds for a moment, his knuckles an echo of the knot that Louis’ aching for and it’s enough.

It’s enough to push Louis over the edge, spurting come onto his stomach, cock untouched, mouth open in a shout he only hears once it’s over.

Harry withdraws his fingers and Louis whines, too empty too soon.

He meets Harry’s gaze. “Are you going to fuck me?”

Harry bites his lip and shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

And the hint that there might be another night of this, that Harry wants Louis bare and in his arms again, sets Louis’ slowing heartbeat aflutter. He reaches up toward Harry’s cock. Despite Louis’ hazy panic, Harry’s erection doesn’t seemed to have waned at all. In fact, Louis’ all but certain that it’s thicker, especially at the base.

Harry bats his hand away and leans in to brush a soft kiss over Louis’ lips. “You relax. I’ll take care of this.”

Louis pouts, though he knows that in the dark of the room Harry won’t be able to read the expression. “I want you,” he says.

“Not tonight,” Harry repeats.

And, helplessly, Louis sighs, soft and light.

He struggles to keep his eyes open as Harry’s hand strips away at his cock, strokes fast, grip surely tight enough to burn. He imagines the different ways he might help Harry along. Play with his balls. Hold fast to his knot. Slip a finger back to rub at Harry’s hole.

His own ass pulses weakly at the thought.

Harry groans softly as he comes. A white rope of come slaps Louis stomach and he smiles.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, a moment later, still shuddering with the force of his orgasm. “I can clean you up. Just tell me where you keep the rags.”

Louis shakes his head and pulls at Harry’s forearms lightly until Harry collapses against Louis’ side, cock wet against Louis’ hip. “Clean up later. Sleep now.”

Harry hums, a soft rasp that carries Louis’ consciousness into sleep.

~

Louis’ chest rises and falls, even and shallow. He’s already asleep.

Harry’s skin feels sticky, not only his stomach, which is covered in drying come, but his arms and his legs and the back of his neck, which are all covered in a thin sheet of sweat. His hand- which had _just_ been inside Louis- is stuck to the duvet. He peels it up, pulls himself into a sitting position, and rolls his shoulders.

He searches the darkened room for his trousers and shirt and rises to retrieve them, keeping his movements as small and quiet as possible so as not to disturb Louis. He doubts Louis sleeps very deeply very often, especially during a promo run like this one.

He gathers his clothes and steps into the hallway where he pulls them on. He needs to leave. He knows it’s not good form to slip out without a word. Generally, people like to know the comings and goings of their sexual partners (this had been a point of contention in his last relationship) but his mind feels as though it’s been emptied and then filled back up with static.

He can’t think. Not about what happened between himself and Louis. Not about what should happen next.

As he makes his way down the sidewalk and out to the street, he realizes he does not have a car here. He sits on the kerb, shoulders hunched, the street lamp beside him illuminating his fingers as they tap out a request on his phone, hoping that Louis won’t wake up and come looking for him.

He just had sex, _really, really good sex;_ his body should feel heavy and relaxed. Instead, the feeling in his limbs echoes that in his mind, as though all his muscles and bones have been replaced by a fuzzy substance like raw cotton or quilt batting, leaving him light and twitchy.

He opens the tumblr app and then closes it when Louis’ face appears at the top of his dash. He opens Google instead and types “Niall Horan” into an image search. Fair skin, bleach blonde hair, and sky blue eyes glow back at him and he takes a deep, relaxing breath.

Niall’s smiling. Everything will be okay.

~

Exhaustion hits him along with the heavy smell of home, the comforting mix of stale coffee, unwashed sheets, and dusty books carrying him straight to his bedroom. Harry falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

He wakes an hour or two later, when Louis’ scent slips into a dream, subtle and arousing and _right there_. He can still smell it as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and he realizes that it’s on his skin.

He needs a shower.

Hot water does the trick, cleaning the evening off his skin and rinsing it out of the recesses of his mind and the crevasses of his body. When he steps out of the tub, he can think again, and clearly.

Sex with Louis had been spectacular, fireworks and angel bells, everything the A/O films make it out to be and more. Harry’s glad to have had a chance to experience it. And with Louis Tomlinson, no less.

However, it can’t happen again.

(It shouldn’t have happened in the first place, but Harry’s not one to dwell in mistakes of the past. It’s not practical.)

Harry’s a consult on Louis’ current project. His job is to provide objective and accurate data and analysis in regards to Louis’ sexuality.

He cannot do that if he’s engaging with Louis’ sexuality in non-objective, unprofessional ways.

To put it bluntly, fucking Louis is almost certain to fuck up his perception of Louis and situation at hand.

He opens up his laptop and clicks over to his email.

_Louis,_

_I hope our meeting this evening provided you with the information and assistance you were looking for regarding your future dates with Kendall. If you have further questions in this area, I’d be happy to pass along information via email. See you at the team meeting next Tuesday._

_Sincerely,_

_H._

He rereads it twice and presses send. Cold, perhaps, but clear. They’re coworkers, not casual lovers.

~

Harry spends the morning crafting an elaborate (but somehow still runny) omelet and working on Nick’s new project. Between bites of egg, he composes a few questions he wants asked in upcoming focus group interviews. Then, as he washes the dishes, he considers some other pieces of data he’d like to have sent on to him regarding the sales of competing brands.

In the afternoon, he curls up on his couch to watch a golf match he DVRed months ago. He falls asleep around hole seven and wakes up to see Niall being interviewed about his disappointing fourth place finish.

Niall blames it on the windy conditions.

Harry wishes he had something like that on which he could blame his poor performance last night. Other As might blame Louis’ scent, but Harry’s honest enough to admit that he was long gone before he’d caught even the faintest whiff. He’d been ready to fuck Louis before he’d even left his own flat.

With effort, he shoves the incident from his mind.

The next morning, at his desk, in the quiet of his office, he opens tumblr. The first thing he sees is Louis’ smile and so he shuts it again. He’s not ready to deal with that quite yet. Soon, but not yet.

He opens up a folder marked Kendall Jenner. He’s been click-dragging information- articles, data, old emails- into it for weeks and then avoiding the task of reading through any of it. This morning seems like a good time to start; Jake had sent Harry a reminder email over the weekend that he’d been asked to assess fan reception and media spin on Kendall’s association with Louis.

The pictures of Kendall and Louis laughing together from their last date set Harry’s skin crawling.

(Which is exactly why Harry should never have let himself become involved with Louis in the first place.)

He’s forty five minutes into it that mess of research, when his phone buzzes in receipt of a text. He glances down to see that Louis has texted him the peach emoji.

His heart tips over, plummeting to the pit of his stomach. Harry hadn’t realized that it had been perched so precariously.

His phone buzzes again. _Got your email. Don’t worry about it._ [Upside down smiley face]

Don’t worry about it.

Harry hadn’t been worrying about it. But he is now.

~

Two days later, after spending twenty minutes trying to sort through Louis’ mentions on Twitter, Harry forces himself to open tumblr. He doesn’t use his phone or his personal accounts. Instead, he logs onto the sock account Louis’ PR team uses, which follows a large variety of fans.

At the very top of the account’s dash is an ask that makes Harry’s heart pound.

Ask: _My sister is a regular at a very exclusive club in London. She would literally disown me if she knew I was writing this. But she swore to me that she saw L there last weekend with a different A (not K) practically getting knotted on the dance floor. ‘If he’s not an O, I’ll cut off my own knot’_

Answer: [three wide-eyes emojis]

#This blogger came off anon to back up the story#but asked that I not publish her handle for her sister’s privacy#she seems a casual fan and relatively legit#I don’t necessarily believe her#Pics or it didn’t happen#but actually no pics please#let Louis have some privacy

The post has been reblogged 3,000 times, though it was posted only 36 hours ago.

The next text post he sees is one that says:

_i love Kendall so much she’s such a role model to me. but she is so not right for louis. we all know that louis doesn’t like to be bossed around. He needs someone who’ll let him take the lead. hes so fierce yk? he needs someone he can protect like he’s been doing for his mum which is so cute!!! Anyway kendall doesnt need protection. shes a powerful woman. im so torn like i just want them both to be happy._

[Kendall in red, looking fabulous and all alone.]

The third post is also a text post:

LOUIS

[Pic of Louis in a suit jacket and cinnamon roll quaff]

TOMLINSON

[Pic of Louis playing soccer]

IS

[Pic of Louis and Eleanor kissing]

NOT

[Pic of Louis bare chested and frowning]

AN

[Pic of Louis on a skateboard]

OMEGA

[Pic of Louis flicking off the camera]

STOP MAKING SHIT UP BECAUSE YOU WANT IT TO BE TRUE!

He finds a few gushing pic spams of Louis and Kendall, some longingly curious Tomlinshaw posts, and a ton of excited speculation about the release date for the new album and whether or not Louis will be performing at the VMAs.

His earlier anxiety dissipates after awhile and his heart is beating evenly by the time that he decides he’s seen enough. He’s just about to log out when another ask catches his eye. It’s not trending, has only been reblogged a few hundred times, but it’s by a blogger he follows on his personal account, _oldtiredolo._

Ask: _**Do we know who that guy is in the background of Louis’ ‘date’ with Kendall? He looks familiar to me. Was he there on the Tomlinshaw outing, too? Is he part of Louis’ team?**_

Answer: _That, dear nonny, is Harry Styles, son of the fuckboy Oxbridge professor, Sam Styles, author of_ Presentation Nightmares _, the epitome of stereotypical-and-oppressive-armchair-trash-philosophy-masquerading-as-academic-literature._

_The younger Styles doesn’t seem to have a social media profile, not one that’s accessible to the public anyway, and he’s not listed on the websites for the label or management or PR. I think he’s likely on contract with one or all of the above._

_Word in the Academy is that he’s followed in his father’s footsteps, another A studying Os like we’re a problem to be solved. Personally, I don’t want him anywhere near L. Predictable, with the shit we’ve seen over the years, but also really fucking frightening._

Harry closes out of Tumblr, shuts his computer and decides that he doesn’t care that it’s only 1pm; he’s done for the day. He wants to go home and re-watch Niall Horan win the Masters.

~

Louis has been texting Harry regularly as though nothing has changed between them. None of his texts have anything to do with work, either.

It’s the second to last week of the Bachelor- only three contestants left- and Louis believes that the last Beta is headed home. He spends the afternoon before it airs texting Harry ‘Sad Beta’ memes, which Harry ignores.

Finally, when he’s seated on his couch with a takeaway container of curry in his lap, he lets Louis in on a secret: the Beta has to stay. It’s good marketing.

To which Louis replies that Omegas make better drama.

They text heatedly throughout the episode. Harry’s heart flutters with each stupid buzz.

To his surprise, Louis is right. And in the previews for the next episode, the Omega that Harry thought was going home appears to go into heat instead.

 _I know what sells_ , Louis texts.

 _Granted_ , Harry replies.

Harry stares at the [Winky face emoji] Louis sends for fifteen minutes before climbing out of his cocoon of blankets to do the dishes and head to bed.

~

Harry walks into the meeting exactly on time. He’s usually the first one into the room, but today he wants to avoid the possibility of having to make small talk with Louis. He’s afraid of what Louis might ask him and afraid of his answer.

He shouldn’t have worried, though, because Louis is his usual ten minutes late- bustling in with a flurry of apologies after the meeting has already begun.

He’s wearing a deep blue vest today, long-sleeved and made of fabric so soft on the eye that Harry yearns to reach out and touch it with the tips of his fingers, or maybe lean in closer and press it against his cheek. He restrains himself.

“Harry’s just given us the numbers,” Emma updates him. “They’re looking spectacular. With people who think you’re an Omega, your favorability ratings are the highest they’ve ever been with any demographic.”

Emma grins. She has a tray of pink and red cupcakes in front of her today that haven’t yet been touched. Louis does not grin back.

“What about the people who don’t think I’m an Omega?” The question strikes straight to the heart of the issue they need to tackle today and Harry has a ready answer.

“They’re polling well too, in terms of favorability. And they’re saying that they’d continue to love and support you if they’re wrong and you _are_ an O in record numbers. So that’s fabulous.”

Louis smiles at him, lines fanning out beside his eyes, and Harry swallows.

“The problem is that before you make any kind of formal statement, you’re going to need to be a lot more obvious. Most of Team Tommo have no idea that you’re an O. We want the majority of your hardcore fans to be cheering you out of that closet.”

“Seems far-fetched. Idealistic.” Jim doesn’t look up from his phone to make the comment and Harry’s almost overwhelmed by the urge to stick his tongue out in response.

“He’s done it before.” Jake nods at Harry, voice quiet and tight, defensive.

Max adds, “He’s right. We need to keep moving the public in the right direction with this in new and exciting ways.”

Louis twists in his seat to share a long glance with Max and Jake.

Harry brings his thumb up to his mouth, realizes what he’s doing, and drops it. He clears his throat. “The VMAs are approaching. I’m thinking he wears a scarf. Shows up on Kendall’s arm. Is photographed leaving an A/O club with her the night before or after.”

Louis whips his body toward Harry and lifts his chin. It’s a small motion, probably missed by everyone else in the room, but Harry’s mouth dries up and he has to look away.

“That’s all already on the schedule, which you would know, Harry, if you ever read the emails I send to you.” Emma’s tone is playful and Harry flushes, remembering how he’d spent the yesterday morning on tumblr instead of prepping for the meeting.

“Speaking of A/O clubs,” Emma says slowly. “We’ve been fielding rumors that you were out at one last weekend.”

Louis shrugs. “Is that a bad thing?”

Emma flushes. “No, actually. It’s been really helpful to the campaign, actually. Some of our media partners are beginning to gnaw at the bit though. Eager to trade one juicy story for another.”

“Does anyone claim to have photos?” Harry asks, thinking about the post he’d seen on tumblr earlier, wondering if anyone at this table knows that _he’d_ been the one ‘practically knotting’ Louis on the dance floor.

Emma gives him a blank look. “You think we could leverage them somehow?”

Harry lets out a breath. He thinks he hears Louis chuckle, but doesn’t dare look at him. “I’m sure we could, depending on what they’d captured.”

“I haven’t seen or heard of any pics. Sounds like Louis made a careful decision about the venue.” She looks across the table at Max, who sometimes handles this sort of thing with big time outlets and big time clients. Harry follows her gaze.

Max’s face is stony, as usual. He says, “They’re all waiting for the pictures from the VMA weekend. They know they’re coming and they’re willing to wait for a big splash then, when we have things under control.” He turns to Louis. “You’re still on board with this- wanting to go the whole damn way with it?”

Louis adjusts his vest and then glances at Harry. His eyes are wide and uncertain. Harry loses himself in the blue of them, trying his best to keep his expression clear and professional.

Louis nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

Jim sets his phone down on the table with a thump. “In that case, the label wants the bomb to drop the week of the release- halfway through the promo interviews. They’re looking at a statement being either at or immediately preceding the album release party. We’ll let you know.”

Emma says, “Wouldn’t that be up to us? Determining the timing of such a sensitive PR campaign? It’s literally our job.”

Jim smirks at her. “Sorry, kiddo. The point is the money. For all of us. The Plan is the plan. And now we’re rolling.”

Louis sucks in a breath. He’s not looking at Harry anymore, so Harry feels safer letting his own gaze settle upon him for a moment or two. He looks pale and suddenly Harry wonders if he’s really, _actually_ okay with this. He wants to take Louis back to his office, debrief this mess of a meeting on his couch with the calming vanilla scent of his candles wafting around them.

That would undoubtedly lead down a dangerous, unprofessional road, though. So when Harry leaves the meeting he heads straight home without so much as a word to Louis or anyone else.

~

 

“I met a boy,” Louis whispers, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Harry’s texted him back. Probably not. Harry hasn’t texted him back in over a week.

“What?” Liam drops his hand from the keyboard. ‘That’s wonderful. How long have you been going out? Can’t be too long.”

Louis shakes his head. “A little while. We’ve only been out twice, but he’s already broken it off with me.”

Now Liam turns to him, piano bench scraping against the wood floor. “Why would he do that?”

The way his bushy eyebrows draw together in puzzlement makes Louis flush. Liam has always given Louis too much credit.

“I’m not sure. Maybe he didn’t like the sex.” Saying it aloud is like taking off his dress shoes after a long night of fake smiling and ass-kissing. He feels both relieved and naked.

Liam pats the bench. Louis sighs, but then he rises and sits beside Liam.

“Did you both get off?” Liam asks. “Did he seem like he was having trouble?”

Louis thinks about Harry leaning over him blocking the little bit of light streaking in from the hall so that Louis could feel more than see the speed at which Harry’s hand worked his cock. “I think he liked it.”

Liam replays the melody they’d been fiddling with at a slower tempo, drawing out the last few notes.

“I think it’s because I’m an O. Makes things complicated, you know?”

Liam nods, as though he understands, even though he couldn’t possibly. “Is he an O, too?”

Louis shakes his head. “An Alpha.”

Liam turns to look at him. “That’s good, isn’t it? You’re on your way out of the closet. Seems like you could really be with this guy, eventually.”

Louis smiles. He imagines he and Harry doing an interview together- maybe with James Corden. In an effort to avoid _feelings_ or talking about himself, Harry would dump a whole lorry full of useless presentation facts onto the unsuspecting late night viewers.

Louis knows having Harry’s scent so close would lift his spirits and calm his nerves. He’s already requested to Max that Harry attend all his upcoming events, ‘in case the need arises for an emergency consult.’ And how much better would it be if Harry could snake his hand out, wrap his fingers around Louis’ wrist, press his thumb to Louis’ pulse, and settle his pre-show jitters.

“He’s not into it. After our last date, he bailed and hasn’t really been in touch since. Hasn’t really given me a reason, either.” The last bit is a lie, strictly speaking, but it feels true. The professional barriers between them are not insurmountable.

“Sounds like a knothead,” Liam murmurs. “You shouldn’t put up with that kind of behavior.”

Harry’s definitely a knothead. Louis’ let him know it on many occasions. But Louis doesn’t quite think that captures the whole of their current situation.

Louis prides himself on his ability to read people and understand their motivations. When he thinks about it, he knows that Harry’s nervous about the fact that they work together. But Louis doesn’t know if that’s the _whole_ reason or simply a cover for something else.

Liam elbows him. “I know what you should do.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, cautiously. Liam doesn’t have the best luck with relationships.

“Write it out. Heartache is the perfect fodder for an album.”

Louis nods because, about this at least, Liam is right.

~

The next morning, Louis rises early and listens to the demo of the Harry ballads they’d recorded as he brews a cup of tea. He thinks about Harry in his own kitchen across town (where _does_ he live?) dropping spoonfuls of sugar into his own tea and smiles. Gross.

He likes the sweep and swell of the chorus, but he doesn’t think the music will be enough to woo Harry. The song is too tied up in Louis’ image, too tied up in work. Louis wants Harry to think of him _outside_ of work.

His phone buzzes on the countertop and he reaches over to silence it, glancing over at the clock on his stove. _Six-thirty already, then_ , he thinks, walking over to the cupboard where he keeps his suppressants, always at the same time, every single morning.

As he’s swallowing it down, he opens up his laptop and googles ‘Niall Horan.’ A few clicks lead him to an upcoming charity match and fan meet and greet. _Perfect_. He purchases two tickets and has them sent directly to Harry’s office.

They’re set to arrive in seven days time, _after_ the VMAs and long enough for Louis to figure out how to bring it up. He smiles to himself, as he wanders back toward his room to dress, imagining how excited Harry will be to finally meet his hero. Not that Louis thinks Harry will display any real outward excitement, he’s not going to jump up and down or squeal. But his dimples will pop and his nose will scrunch up and Louis will smell _coconutcoconutcoconut._

~

Out of all the executives that Louis has met with over the last three years, without a shadow of a doubt, Max has the most imposing desk. It’s broad and deep, a dark cherry maybe, something that wouldn’t look out of place in an eighteenth century study.

Max doesn’t bother with niceties, either. He stays on one side of the desk and keeps his clients on the other.

Louis sits in the high backed wooden chair (almost but not quite the same dark shade as the desk) and waits while Max finishes up whatever he’s doing on his computer.

Max continues to taptaptap on his keyboard, occasionally hitting the delete key with harder punchpunchpunches and then taptaptapping away again. Louis folds and unfolds his hands. He’s not certain why he’s here. He knows that Max had met with Simon, as well as the exec from his management team. Neither he nor Emma had been invited.

He wonders if they’ve decided to call the whole thing off. He thinks about the songs he’s been writing with Liam these last few days and wonders if they’ll allow them on the album anyway. Probably not.

Max takes a deep breath and clicks a few times with his mouse. The sandwich Louis had for lunch tumbles arounds inside his stomach.

Finally, Max turns from his screen to face Louis.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tomlinson,” Max says.

Louis smiles, holding the expression long enough for it sour.

“You probably know why you’re here.” Max folds his hands atop the desk, a bland, almost bored, expression on his face.

“No, I don’t,” Louis tells him. Best to be direct with Max as it forces him to do the same.

“We met yesterday about your situation and came to a few decisions.”

Louis beats him to the chase. If he says it first, maybe it won’t be so hard to hear. “It’s off. The coming out is off.”

At this, Max smiles. “Quite the contrary.”

Louis doesn’t take a breath.

Max continues to smile, looking like a naughty child who’s gotten away with shifting blame for some heinous act onto his sibling.

Louis wants to punch him.

“We want to make a big splash. After the VMAs, we want you to be the subject of every morning show and every water cooler conversation.”

Louis swallows. “A few snaps at an A/O club isn’t going to do that.”

“No, it’s not.”

Silence fills the room. Suffocating. Lungs empty, heart racing, it hits Louis, what they’ve decided to do.

It’s PR genius.

And it’s really, _really_ fucking shitty.

~

“You look good tonight,” Kendall tells him. She’s pressed up against his side even though the couch they’re on is large and mostly empty. The bouncers have allowed in a few fans who talk so he and Kendall are putting on a show.

He’s getting used to her smell, which is a bit bitter, like walking into Starbucks. He’s never been a fan of coffee, but he doesn’t mind it, especially not when he can smell Harry a few feet away.

Which he can.

He glances over his shoulder. He’s being obvious, but he can’t help it.

Harry’s on his phone, which means that he hasn’t lost it. As far as Louis can see it’s the same phone in the same case, so it seems doubtful that he’s changed his number. The only explanation for Louis’ steady stream of unanswered texts is that Harry does not want to answer them.

Louis takes sip of his beer.

“You’re still pining. I take it the plan hasn’t gone well?” Kendall must’ve followed Louis’ gaze.

She’s drinking her own beer, something darker and fancier than Louis’ own blonde brew.

“I tried,” Louis tells her. “But he wasn’t into it, I guess.”

She laughs and he frowns. “You’re so put out. There are other fish in the sea, you know?”

“Not ones that smell like he does,” Louis shoots back.

“No,” Kendall allows, patting his hand.

Louis closes his eyes, letting the bass thump through him. He wonders if counting the seconds would make the time pass faster.

“You’re performing tomorrow night,” Kendall says.

Louis nods, keeping his eyes closed tightly. He’d gone to the venue earlier today for a rehearsal. The stage they’ve put him on isn’t huge and he’ll have his band behind him. The production crew has envisioned something simple, no flashing lights or distracting backdrop, no dancers or special guests, just Louis under a spotlight in a navy tux.

“You like doing award shows?” she asks.

He opens his eyes and turns to her. “God, no. They’re live, in front of millions of TV viewers, for one. And for another, the ratio of fans in the actual audience is so small. Most of the people watching won’t be there for me, many won’t have even heard of me.”

“Everyone has heard of you,” Kendall says.

 _Well, they will have after tomorrow night,_ Louis wants to say. Instead, he asks, “Are we doing the red carpet together?”

“I thought so, but my PA told me this evening that we weren’t. She said, ‘Make the most of tonight because Louis’ team backed out of everything for tomorrow.’ Do you know what’s up?”

Louis does know, but he says, “I’m not sure. How shall we make the most of tonight? Should we kiss?”

Kendall laughs. “Sure.”

“Your O won’t mind?” The words are out of Louis’ mouth before he think them through. His mind had been on Harry, whose gaze he can feel heavy on his back.

“She’ll mind, but she gets it. She wants me to be out and she understands that something with you will make the kind of splash my career needs at this point. We’ve been together for four years. Even if she hates it, she’s used to it by now.”

Louis’ eyebrows jump. “Four years?”

“Yeah.” Kendall flushes and casts her eyes downward. He appreciates her shyness, finds it an attractive trait on an Alpha.

Louis’ phone buzzes in his pocket and he tugs it free of his trousers. “Paps are ready for us. You want to get out of here?”

She’s already standing and offering him a hand, which he takes, allowing her to pull him up. Louis can practically feel the gazes of the fans zeroing in on their point of contact.

Kendall keeps hold of him as they wind their way toward the exit and even though he knows it’s against the club’s policy, Louis swears he sees cameras flashing in their direction.

Leaning into Kendall’s ear, he murmurs, “About that kiss.”

She turns back to him and their noses brush. Louis wonders how close Harry is behind them, whether he can see their lips a breath away from touching.

“On the street,” Kendall says. “Let’s put on a show.”

Louis stiffens. He’s a good actor, yeah, but he’s not sure well he’ll be able to fake sexual passion.

He doesn’t have time to protest, though, because suddenly David is there, at the door of the club, holding them back. “Just a moment. The car is pulling around now.”

Suddenly, Harry’s scent hits Louis from behind. His head fills up with it and he considers asking David if they can wait outside, where the air will be clearer.

However, the car arrives before he can get the words out. Kendall pulls him out onto the street. A man walks around to open the back door for them, but before they slide in, Kendall turns and presses their mouths together.

This time, Louis knows he’s not imagining the flashbulbs going off.

#

The photos from the the A/O club aren’t making the kind of splash that the team had hoped. As Emma is quick to point out in their brief phone conversation, all kinds of ‘Beta’ celebrities have been spotted at such places, which Harry knows, of course. Still, he’d assumed that with Kendall all but out and the rumors of late, the speculation would shoot through the roof.

The public is much more curious about the fact that Jay-Z and Beyonce went to separate pre-parties. They’re also buzzing over the fact that Zayn’s date, a pretty blonde ‘from back home,’ had been spotted with a diamond flashing on her ring finger. Had the long-time bad boy finally gotten serious about someone? And who was she?

He’d flat out stolen Louis’ original PR storyline and was dominating the news cycle with it. Harry was beginning to worry that he’d been wrong, that upping speculation wasn’t the key to driving sales at all.

His anxiety isn’t helped by the fact that today is the first time in weeks that he hasn’t heard from Louis. For months, Louis has been sending him an emoji at the same time every single morning. Harry hasn’t been texting back, not recently, so it should be a surprise that Louis has kept it up.

But he has. Until today.

Harry wonders if he’s been on tumblr after last night and seen the sorts of things people are saying about him. Not about Louis. About Harry.

Several of the pap shots had caught Harry in the background, his expression dark as he watched Kendall and Louis kiss. Harry remembers the moment clearly, the bitterness tingling the back of his throat, the rage clenching his fists.

This is not what tumblr sees, though.

What tumblr sees is a man on a mission. According to a certain subset of bloggers, it had been Harry’s job to ensure that Kendall and Louis kissed. Louis appears uncomfortable, eyes open and wide with surprise, lips thin. They say that he’s clearly being forced. Those bloggers have zeroed in on Harry in the background, a douchebag in the pocket of the label, making certain that Louis does as he’s been told. One vocal blogger is insisting that it’s basically rape and that Harry is the primary perpetrator.

They’re right and they’re wrong. Harry’s job _was_ to make sure that the public received the show that the team had planned. Kissing hadn’t explicitly been part of the plan, but it fit in perfectly. In fact, Harry probably should have thought of it himself, probably should have suggested it.

Instead, he’d been frozen to the spot, paralyzed by jealousy. And the moment he’d regained his senses, he’d rushed forward, urging them into the car. Which was exactly the kind of non-objective behavior he was trying to avoid by cutting things off and ignoring Louis’ texts.

Harry knows that the kiss had been for show, not motivated by any secret feelings Louis and Kendall share. The fans are right: Louis looked very awkward, like he hadn’t known where to put his hands, as did Kendall, who had been grinning through the smooch. Once in the vehicle, they’d broken apart laughing and wiping their mouths.

Still, Louis hadn’t texted this morning and, as Harry rinses out his coffee cup, he can’t ignore the ache in his heart that’s desperate to know _why_.

~

Harry hates his suit, or rather, tux. It’s short in the arms, tight around the middle, and the damn bow-tie sits crooked around his neck. (Emma already tried to fix it three times.)

He still doesn’t understand why his presence is necessary. Louis had always been the one to request him before and now they’re not speaking. Max and Emma should easily be able to handle a few red carpet interviews.

When Louis arrives to the trailer set out back for him, he’s wearing soft white t-shirt and sweats. Harry’s never seen him dressed so casually outside his home. Emma leans into Harry as Louis approaches to whisper, “He only wears that outfit when he’s nervous.”

She takes a deep breath and then walks forward to pull him into a hug. Out of her pocket, she pulls a piece of homemade caramel, which she places into Louis’ palm before dragging him inside. Harry follows closely, though he’s not eager to watch Louis in various states of undress for the next few hours.

As Emma and his stylist run through the evening’s schedule with Louis, Harry answers a few emails and scrolls through Niall Horan’s official website. He’s been on vacation the past week or so and Harry misses him. He’s hoping for a sunburnt selfie soon.

He clicks open the page for Niall’s upcoming charity event. He’s been thinking about buying tickets for months, wavering back and forth, wondering if his work schedule would allow it and mustering up the courage to splurge on the meet and greet. He imagines shaking Niall’s hand and then rejects the thought. Harry’s palms are often too sweaty to risk it. When he presses “Purchase Tickets Now” he’s taken to a screen that says, “Sold Out.”

Of course.

“Harry’s here to help with any questions you have for the interviews,” Emma says, grabbing Harry’s attention. Louis sits on a bench in only his pants, his stylist doing god knows what to his hair. He’s watching Harry intently and smiles when Harry meets his gaze.

Harry takes a deep breath, but he can’t muster a returning smile. He bites at his thumbnail.

Louis replies to Emma but he keeps his gaze fixed on Harry. “I met with Max a couple days back. I think I’m well prepped in that regard.”

Harry narrows his eyes. He hadn’t heard a word about that meeting.

“You did?” Emma asks, clearly also out of the loop. “Why?”

Louis shrugs. “He’d had another conversation with the label and management. Wanted to make sure I was on the same page.”

“What about me? As the head of your team, shouldn’t I be on the same page?” Emma asks, voice dark. Harry knows she’s been pissed at Jake and Max, feeling undermined since the moment they’d invited him onto the team. They tossed out a lot of her hard work in favor of Harry’s plan and continued to do so as the promo season progressed.

Louis shrugs again. “He wanted to make sure that I was still on board with an eventual coming out. I don’t think he wanted to bother you with another meeting.”

Louis is looking away from both of them, to the back of the trailer where the suit he’s meant to perform in hangs, navy and with more layers than will be comfortable under the hot stage lights. Beside it hangs the jeans and vintage band tee that he’ll wear down the red carpet.

“If you say so.” Emma doesn’t look convinced, but she picks up where she left off with the questions.

With each new topic, Louis grows more agitated, shifting in his seat, toying with the hem of his pants, tapping the tip of his toe against the floor of the trailer.

This will be his first live event since Good Morning America and while Harry’s mildly disappointed by the lack of splash it had made, Louis and Kendall’s date last night will be on the forefront of people’s minds. On top of which, Harry remembers, Louis doesn’t like live TV performances.

Harry wishes there were something he could do to calm Louis’ nerves, but he can’t very well reach over the table and loop his fingers around Louis’ wrist. That’s far too intimate for their working relationship and they’re in a trailer filled to the brim with their colleagues. So Harry doesn’t say a word. He simply stares around the trailer wishing he were anywhere else in the world.

~

Max insists that Harry stick close by Emma as she escorts Louis down the red carpet. Harry’s meant to keep things running smoothly, he says.

However, it’s clear to Harry from the moment Louis exits the limo that things are not going to run smoothly. Louis’ pasted on an odd dreamy expression that Harry’s never seen him wear before. He wanders down the red carpet in something of daze. He doesn’t seem to see or hear Emma, who’s desperately trying to rally him this way and that.

When Louis stands in front of the first set of cameras, he winks lasciviously and says, “How _you_ doin’?”

The interviewer laughs, but her smile strains.

To Emma, Harry whispers, “Is he drunk? High? He was out of our sight for less than four minutes in that damn limo. How the hell could-“

“Hush,” Emma cuts him off and gestures to Louis who is scooting closer to the interviewer with every answer. “What the fuck.”

She cuts them off with a firm, “Gotta move on. Sorry.”

Tugging Louis over to Harry, she hisses, “What’s gotten into you? That poor woman was not asking to be hit on. Jesus, I’ve _never_ seen you do that before. You’re supposed to be besotted with Kendall.”

She’s practically in tears, no sweets here to eat or share. Harry wants to console her, but he’s distracted by Louis, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention to either of them. His gaze is hot on a strong-jawed male interviewer several yards away; an Alpha, maybe.

“Let’s do him next,” Louis says.

Irritation roils up in Harry’s gut. He fights the urge to grab Louis and force him to settle that same hot gaze on Harry instead. He’s a professional.

Unlike Louis, apparently, who is striding away from them and toward the man in question.

Emma chases after him, clutching at his arm. “Not yet, Louis. It’s not your turn. Jesus Christ. What’s your-“

The man ends in his interview abruptly, turning to meet Louis’ gaze with his own hungry stare.

Harry wants to growl. He does not.

During this interview, though Harry does not think the word ‘interview’ adequately describes the exchange, Louis actually reaches out to touch the cheek of the interviewer. Then, Louis manages to shift just so and his newsprint scarf slips down toward his shoulder. He tilts his head up revealing a blotch pale throat.

Harry’s kissed that very stretch of skin.

He closes his eyes and when he opens them, the interviewer is sniffing the air around Louis.

“What the fuck?” Harry hisses to Emma.

“Louis’ asked if he could guess Louis’ ‘cologne.’” She sounds exhausted. The night has barely begun.

The red carpet continues on like this with Louis hitting on every single interviewer he encounters, male and female, Alphas and Betas. By the time he reaches the auditorium his scarf is almost all the way unwound.

Harry’s had enough of the game. He pulls him aside. “What are you playing at?” he asks.

Louis blinks back at him. “What?”

“Are you _trying_ to make me jealous or something?” The words sound stupid now that they’re out of his head. Still, Harry wants desperately to hear Louis’ answer even though he already knows what it will be.

“Jealous? What?” Louis raises one eyebrow. And then he smirks, leaning into Harry and letting his lips brush Harry’s lips, “That wasn’t my intention. But I’m glad to know you’re still hot for me.”

Louis inhales deeply, nose against Harry’s neck, before walking away.

Emma, who’s gone to check in with Max, returns to Harry’s side.

“Did you find out what was going on with him?” Emma asks. “Max said not to worry about it. He said he thought the flirtatiousness would grab us some good headlines. No press is bad press and all that.”

Harry shakes his head trying to clear it. “No, I did not find out what was going on with him.”

Emma gazes at him for a moment and laughs. Hard. So hard she bends over slightly with the force of it. “Oh my god. He did it to you, too, didn’t he? I thought you were immune to that kind of flirtation, Styles. Well, he’s a charismatic O, so you can’t really blame yourself for feeling a little attraction every now and then.”

“What?” Harry blinks at her. “No, that’s not-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma says. “You’re not the only one. I swear Cowell had a thing for him at one time. That’s probably why he let him- as a known O- on the show in the first place.”

“That a terrible thing to say,” Harry says. The assumption that Louis would need that kind of assistance to make it pisses him off.

“Doesn’t make it untrue.” Emma shakes her head. “You’re acting oddly tonight, too. Must be something in the air. Let’s go track down our charge, make sure he hasn’t found someone to fuck in the bathroom.”

She says it like it’s a joke, a little choked laugh behind it, but they find Louis pressed up against Kendall’s side, face practically buried in her neck in full view of several paps. Kendall’s petting his hair and cooing to him. They look more intimate than Harry’s ever seen them and his fingers itch to pull Louis away.

Emma does it for him, insisting that it’s just about time for Louis to be seated and Kendall has an award to present right at the start of the show.

Louis follows Emma through the rows of people, gazing up and around him, his stride appearing directionless, not quite meeting anyone’s eye.

~

Harry’s backstage for Louis’ performance, watching on a video screen they’ve set up for staffers like himself.

Beforehand, Louis had been tugging at his suit, loosening and tightening his tie, buttoning and unbuttoning his buttons. Harry’s never watched Louis prepare for a performance before, at least not so closely, but he doesn’t think that this behavior is normal, seeing as his stylist kept batting his hands away and yelping at him to stop fussing.

Louis hadn’t met Harry’s eyes once and Harry still can’t quite figure out what he’s doing here.

Max had stopped in right before the performance and asked to speak with Louis alone. Emma had wanted to stay, but Max had leveled her with glare and said, “This is a private pep talk,” before dragging Louis down the hall and into the loo.

When Louis returned, he looked shaken, walking with purpose for the first time that evening. He didn’t say another word, though, before stepping onto the stage.

They watch him miss a couple of his opening notes, and Emma cringes. “I knew this would happen. He always warms up beforehand; he’s usually singing to himself for hours before something like this, pacing back and forth repeating lines over and over. Looks almost mad. Nothing like the quiet fidgeting he was doing tonight. Fuck. He’s going to blow the whole thing with millions of people watching. Why didn’t I _insist-“_

She stops talking. The people around Harry stop moving. Harry stops breathing. He thinks time might stop, except that Louis continues on.

He’s let his jacket fall to the floor and is pulling free his tie. As he sings, he’s running his hands up and down his body, closing his eyes and shuddering between phrases.

“What the fuck,” Harry says, breathlessly.

“Oh my god,” Emma moans.

He’s untucking his shirt. The audience is quiet. Why is no one stopping him, Harry thinks, before realizing that he and Emma, _they’re_ the ones who should be stopping him, _but how?_

“I thought he was on suppressants,” Emma says. She’s walking toward the wings of the stage. “We have to get him out of here. Oh my god. How did we not see this? Harry, this is literally your job.”

Harry swallows, following her closely. He doesn’t have an answer. He’d been so caught up in his own fucking mess of feelings for Louis that he’d missed a million fucking signs, he realizes. Louis’ edginess earlier in the day - he must have been so hot and itchy in that trailer. Louis’ flirtatiousness and dazedness- so many Os described the desperation that they felt to find a mate in those first few hours of their heat. Louis pulling at his hot clothes- of course, he’d barely be able to stand covering himself up, especially if this had been coming on all afternoon.

And he might not even realize it’s happening; he’s never had a heat before.

When Harry reaches the wings, Louis is on his final notes. He’s wearing only his trousers. The Alphas in the audience must be practically salivating.

Fuck, how are they going to get him out of here safely?

Harry’s breathing roughly, barely restraining himself from running on stage. He doesn’t trust himself to usher Louis to his hotel, but he doesn’t trust anyone else either.

“Have you texted David to bring the car around?” He asks Emma who nods.

Louis is gasping for air by the end of his number, sweat dripping down his body. And again Harry thinks, _how did I miss it?_

Harry should have been one of the first ones to realize.

The lights go down on the stage and Louis stumbles toward them. The moment he’s within reach, Harry grabs him by the wrist and drags him out. Harry feels blind to anything except the exit signs overhead.

Vaguely, he hears Emma and Louis murmuring to each other, mild irritation coloring their tones, but he can’t stop moving to listen. He needs to remove Louis from this situation as quickly and as smoothly as possible. He can’t let any other Alphas step in their way.

When they reach the car, Harry hears Emma say, “We should get back to the hotel and talk this all through.”

“No,” Harry replies. “I’ve got him. You stay. Tell Max what’s happened. I can handle Louis.” He hears the forceful tone behind his words and it makes him a little sick.

“I don’t really think…” Emma begins.

But Louis cuts her off. “That’s a good idea. Harry and I will go back. You talk to Max.”

Louis’ clear willingness to go with Harry surprises him for a moment before he remembers that _Louis is in heat_. Of course, he wants Harry, an Alpha, to take care of him. His biology wouldn’t let him behave otherwise.

The moment the door clicks shut behind them, Harry starts in. “You must have realized that you were going into heat. Why didn’t you say anything, Lou? You could have been hurt. Someone could have gotten to you before I did. This isn’t something to fuck around with.”

Louis gazes back him, eyes shockingly clear. His lips part and then close. His skin is no longer glistening and the bags under his eyes give him a tired look that Harry doesn’t associate with Omegas in heat.

“Harry,” he says. “I’m not in heat.”

“Yes, you are,” Harry replies. “You’ve never had a heat before, I get it. You don’t know what it’s like. But I’m going to tell you. This is exactly what it’s like- the desire to mate with every person you meet, the desperation to be naked, the way your skin has gone hot and itchy. That’s all classic heat symptoms.”

“I know,” Louis says.

And Harry opens his mouth to press the issue, but then Louis says, “It was for the show. I’m not in heat. It’s a ruse, like dating Kendall. I’m on suppressants. I’m fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re not in heat.” Harry’s slow words run together.

Louis nods, relief flooding him. Harry understands. He’ll calm down. The media will have a field day. Louis may never be able to fully control his own image ever again. But this situation with Harry will settle. Here, again, he will be in control.

“You won’t be able to get out of the limo with me at the hotel,” Louis tells him.

Harry puts up a hand. “Why were you flirting with all those reporters? Why did you take off your clothes? Why were you _acting_ like you were in heat?”

Now, Louis frowns. “That should be obvious.”

“You wanted people to think that you were in heat,” Harry says, words quicker now. “But _why_? Isn’t that against your contract? Won’t the label be through the roof? And if you were so eager to be out, why didn’t you just say so?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, you’ve got it wrong. The label orchestrated that, and Max. They suggested that I fake a heat. Album pre-sales start this week. The press will go wild. I’ll clear things up with the actual album release and then do some serious interviews after it comes out. Draw the whole thing out with as much drama as possible.”

“That’s the least humane coming out plan that I’ve ever heard. You might as well have been forcibly outed. My god. We need to be doing damage control. I thought we were selling you as a hero and powerful person, someone who makes his own choices, you know?” Harry hands are fisted and his voice has a bitter edge to it that Louis has never heard before. He finds himself erecting a wall against the rush of it.

“You _should_ be doing damage control right now. You’re not supposed to be here; you’re supposed to be working with Emma on spin. Why did you chase me down?”

“You know damn well why I chased you down! I was worried about you! If you’d been in heat, you could have been caught off guard, could have thrown yourself on someone you didn’t actually want. You could have been _raped._ ”

Irritation has been building like a disease under Louis’ skin, breaking out across his body like itchy spots with every lecherous smile he’d been forced to give and every piece of clothing he’d been forced to shed. Now, Harry’s words, loaded with anger and fear, blow roughly over the rash, and Louis explodes.

“What the fuck! That’s not your fucking job. You’re not here to protect me. Your job is to help me sell records. Your job is to bring creativity and expertise to a fucked-up situation, so that I can _use_ it. You know fucking what? You should have been the one to come up with this plan. This shouldn’t have come from Jim at the label; this should have come from you. You have all the data and tools at your disposable to know that this is the story people want. A secret Omega accidentally goes into heat at the VMAs after spending the last few weeks loved-up with his Alpha girlfriend. It’s _your_ job to write that shit.”

Harry takes a shaky breath and clenches and unclenches his fingers. “I came up with a plan. The team agreed on it. It would have sold you records. It was dramatic _and_ it protected you.”

“I’m perfectly safe, as you can see,” Louis cuts in.

Harry’s eyes turn sad. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Or Emma. Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”

Louis shrugs. “That wasn’t up to me. Max said that they didn’t want people to know. They wanted it to be a surprise. I’d wager he didn’t want you to try to put a stop to it.”

“I wouldn’t have-“

“Yes, you would have. You always overthink things. You’d have wanted to run a dozen surveys and tests. You’d have wanted to do a soft trial and look at the data. Sometimes you have to take a risk. Sometimes you have to live a little.”

Now that he’s said his part, the irritated itch dissipates. Louis feels worn out, the beginnings of a cold tickling the back of his throat.

Harry’s mouth opens and then closes. “You’re one to talk. You don’t live either. You just pretend to live. Pretend to date. Pretend to be happy. Pretend to be sad. Pretend to miss your family. Pretend to be doing something new. Fuck, you’re probably only pretending to write your own music. Who knows? Maybe Zayn’s right. Maybe you only pretend to sing, as well.”

Tears well up behind Louis’ eyes and bile burns hot in his mouth. He’s definitely going to be sick. “Fuck you.”

Harry shakes his head and looks out the window, folding his arms across his chest. “Of course, you were only pretending to go into heat. You wouldn’t dare go off your suppressants. You wouldn’t dare let go of one ounce of control.”

A memory flashes through Louis mind: himself, naked on his bed with Harry’s mouth on him, tight and wet and hot.

“I’ve never seen your flat,” he says.

Harry laughs coldly. “What?”

“You think I’m closed off and under control, but I have no idea where you live. I don’t know anything about your family, except that your dad’s a knothead fuck.” Louis is crying. He never cries. He’s going to look a fucking _mess_ in the pap shots at his and Kendall’s hotel. That’s not a problem, he supposes, even if he’d rather not be all over the news tomorrow with his eyes red.

“That’s how it should be,” Harry says. “I don’t- we work together. You were the one just lecturing me on my job. My job isn’t to be your friend. It isn’t to invite you over for beers and tell you my life story. Like you said, it’s my job to help you make money.”

Louis swallows and nods, blinking back a fresh run of tears.

He knocks on the window between the driver and the backseat. David, who is in the passenger seat, opens it. “Can you make sure Harry gets back to wherever he needs to be, after you’ve dropped me off at the hotel.”

David glances between them, frowns, and nods.

“Thank you,” Louis says, shutting the window again.

They’re quiet for a moment, avoiding each other’s gaze. The limo comes to a halt and Louis peers out the window to see the front of the hotel. A minute later, his door opens and David ushers him out and straight into a glow of flashing cameras.

~

Louis doesn’t open his computer for forty-eight hours. He stays away from Twitter and Facebook. He doesn’t even take any phone calls or answer any texts, (save the one he shoots to his mum, assuring her he’s alright, as well as a good-morning sad face to Harry). He’s meant to stay in his hotel, out of sight, believably in-heat for the first twenty-four hours. He isn’t even allowed to order room service. His staff places his orders and sneaks it in to him.

He spends the day binge-watching the most recent season of Homeland on Netflix. By the end of the day, he’s seeing spots in his vision and hearing the theme music in the shower. He sleeps poorly and dreams he’s on the cast of the show.

The second day he lets his team dress him and usher him to his album photoshoot and then to a Skype meeting with the label about naming the album. They don’t let him pick and he’s not even sure why he’s been invited into the conversation at all.

That evening Emma brings him Chinese takeaway for dinner. He’s been dreading chatting with her. He’d felt almost as badly about leaving her out of the plan for the VMAs as he’d felt about Harry. And after seeing how angry Harry’d been, he can’t imagine that Emma will be pleased.

She enters smiling, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Louis says, “I’m sorry.”

She sets the styrofoam containers on the dining table in the main room of the suite and shakes her head. “What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s fucking Max who should be sorry. Of course, he’s not.”

Her voice is even, measured. She’s always so put together. Her hair tight up in her bun, her clothes expensive and without a single wrinkle. He can tell the events of the last two days have gotten under her skin, however, because she’s forgotten her mascara and several strands of mousy hair have escaped her clasp and lay flat against her neck.

“I should have told you. Or insisted that he did.” He couldn’t have admitted it to Harry, but he knows it’s true. He shouldn’t have deceived his team. His stylist should have known, too, and his mum.

“You’re not responsible for the fact that Max and Simon and Jim are assholes.” Emma opens the little packages of plastic silverware, both hers and Louis’. “We need to talk about what’s happened, though, and where we go from here.”

“Where’s Harry?” Louis asks. “Shouldn’t he be a part of this conversation?”

Emma shrugs. “We met earlier today. He was acting strangely. Wanted to get on a flight back to London as soon as possible. Didn’t want to wait for tonight to go home. I think something might be going on with his family or personal life or something. He kind of seemed like- god, this sounds weird to say about _Harry_ \- but he seemed like maybe he was going through a break-up.”

“Oh,” Louis says, an ache budding in his chest.

“He’s so tight lipped, so I can’t say for sure. But heartbroken people just have a certain look about them, you know? Like a cracked vase, leaking water, liable to shatter at any moment. You guys are kind of close, right? Do you have any idea what’s going on? Whether it’s serious and he’ll need time off or not?”

Louis shakes his head. “We’re not really close at all. I don’t anything about his family except for what you can google.”

Emma’s brows draws together. “You’ve googled his- nevermind. Well, he was very impressed with your stunt. Far more than I was. For that reason, Max was probably right to keep me out of the loop. I’d have tried to stop it for sure. This is a mess that we can’t possibly hope to have full control over. I mean, we’ll be able to spin it the way we’d like, for the most part. And the media organizations we have relationships with are happy to play by our rules, but the clips of you throwing yourself at those reporters will be impossible to scrub completely from the internet.”

Louis nods. He’d expected as much. He figures that while they’ll always be out there, he’d be able to replace them with much more flattering images of himself. Talking about Omega empowerment. Out with handsome and encouraging Alpha dates. Proving to the world that he’s more than a wet ass.

“Kendall’s team is happy with the press,” Emma continues. “She rushed from the venue, as soon as you left, caught on film dashing to your side to help you through this difficult moment.”

“Good,” Louis says.

“One issue that’s arisen, actually, is Harry,” Emma continues. "He was in the photos of you leaving the VMAs. He looks rather, um, intimate, with you. That’s really why I thought you two were friends. I’ve never known you to let anyone to touch you like that.”

Louis shakes his head. “That shouldn’t be an issue. Harry’s not famous.”

“No, he’s not famous. But people can easily find out who he is and that he’s an Alpha. He wasn’t interested in me spreading anything about a girlfriend of his or anything though.”

“I mean, can’t you just say that he works with me? That seems like enough.”

“The Star ran with it. He’s your mystery Alpha. I’m thinking about having you tweet something about Kendall?”

Louis nods. “That’d work.”

His heart isn’t in this conversation, he realizes. “I trust you to figure this one out, Emma,” he says. “I’m not- I’m tired. It’s been a long day with album prep and other things. Are there any specific questions that you had for me?”

Emma shakes her head. “I just- you usually have ideas and are interested in your media campaigns. I know you like to draft your own tweets. I thought you might like to- “

“Not this time,” Louis says, ending the conversation.

~

As soon as Emma leaves, Louis opens his computer. Back when he was in regular psychotherapy at the beginning of his second tour, he’d been told that he should give himself at least a full three days after emotionally draining events before engaging with any sort of media about himself. Actually, he was supposed to wait longer, if he hadn’t calmed down.

So he knows this is a bad idea. Anxiety courses through his veins like some sort of drug, causing his heart rate to race and his palms to itch. And he still opens Twitter and types his name into the search bar.

Five trends pop up. The top three are informative and the ones that follow, kind.

Louis Tomlinson in Heat

Omega Louis Tomlinson

#lOuis

#BeSafeLouis

#TeamTommoForever

Louis doesn’t click any of them.

Instead, he closes his computer and sighs. He’s relieved not to see any slurs up front. His team has done a good job managing the press, so far. He’d heard as much from his mum over the phone and from the small updates that had come through his email. But he likes seeing it for himself. For a moment, he thinks his old therapist might have been full of shit. He’d spent the last forty-eight hours anxious for no reason. Being able to read the trends for himself a day earlier probably would have been helpful. He might have even been able to sleep last night.

Then, suddenly, he remembers why he’d opened his computer in the first place. In the search bar at the top of Twitter, instead of his own name, he types _Harry Styles_. The first suggested search is _Harry Styles Louis Tomlinson_. He clicks it.

Up on his feed pop dozens of images of the same four or five photos of he and Harry leaving the VMAs. In the first, Harry’s just caught up to him. Harry’s back is to the camera and Louis’ face registers surprise.

Harry’s suit glints a shiny black under the flash. Louis hadn’t noticed it that night. He’d been ignoring everything but his task and Harry’s calming scent. If he’d allowed himself to be distracted from either, he may not have been able to go through with the plan.

But Harry looks good in this photo, dressed fancier than Louis has ever seen him, fancier than Louis himself. His lips are swollen from his nervous biting earlier in the day, but Louis knows they have the same red glint after several, long rough kisses. Harry’s hair is in disarray, as usual. But on the red carpet, in contrast to his expensive outfit, the mess of curls looks like like well-planned sex hair.

Louis knows from experience that Harry’s actual sex-hair is much, _much_ messier, frizzing in spots and sticking up in seemingly unnatural ways.

In the next shot, the photograph has moved forward to catch half of Harry’s face. His eyes are wide and his brows are drawn together. Louis remembers suddenly, the way his voice had been high-pitched- so strange and different- when he’d caught up to Louis.

Harry had been out of his mind with panic.

Shame washes over Louis. At the time, Louis’d been exhausted and scared. He hadn’t had room in his mind to feel badly about Harry or Harry’s reaction.

Fuck, he was so selfish. He’d always been selfish. He’d known, of course, that Harry wouldn’t react well to being left out of the loop. But he hadn’t been prepared for the depth of Harry’s panic, nor the depth of his anger.

In the photo that’s being passed around with the most frequency, Harry’s caught Louis’ bare arm between his fingers. Louis is turning into him and the photographer clicked his shutter at the exact moment that Louis’ eyes had closed and his face had gone slack as he’d breathed Harry in.

From an outside perspective, the photo would appear very nearly erotic. Alpha and Omega. Skin on skin. In the midst of a Heat. Scenting each other.

 _Fuck_.

Louis tries to remember what Emma’s said she planned to do about this but his meeting with her had gone blurry the moment Harry’s name had come up.

He closes his computer again. And then re-opens it to take another look at the photograph. Has Harry seen it? Of course, he has. He must be flipping the fuck out right now- Louis knows how much he dreads being in the spotlight.

Suddenly, Louis can’t stay another day in the States. He’s meant to be seen with Kendall this evening at a local restaurant having a romantic meal, push some rumors that things might be very serious between the two of them. Louis’ flight home to London leaves the following morning.

He texts his team and tells them he needs to fly home immediately. Family emergency, he says.

Emma texts back. _Not sure we can get you out of the date tonight. Is it something we need to get ahead of?_

Louis replies, _It’ll stay private. Tell max after the vmas hed fuckin better_

He dumps his things into his suitcase a little blindly. If he and Harry can meet up, talk things through, maybe everything will be alright. Maybe Harry won’t quit his team. Maybe Harry will realize that all Os aren’t the same after all, just looking to get ahead however they’re able, not above putting their scent and their sexuality to _work._

At the airport, David hands him his sleeping pills with a raised eyebrow. He expects Louis to protest; Louis usually does. Louis doesn’t like the idea of becoming addicted to sleep aids. If his body needs sleep, it’ll sleep.

Tonight, though, he takes the medication without complaint and, as soon as he’s boarded, closes his eyes and drifts off.

A few hours later, he awakens. They’re still in the air, somewhere halfway over the Atlantic, and Louis’ phone is buzzing in his pocket.

His face goes hot. He could have sworn that he turned the phone to Airplane mode, but it isn’t the first time he’s forgotten something like that.

He lets out a soft exhale when he realizes that no one is calling him after all. It’s just his alarm reminding him to take his suppressants. He reaches into the front pocket of his pack where he keeps them and his hand comes out empty.

He pulls the pack into his lap and digs inside. No luck.

David is asleep beside him and normally Louis would never wake him. He needs the rest as badly as Louis, or worse. But this is a Big Deal.

He taps David’s shoulder.

David opens one eye and then the other. “What?”

“Did you pack my, erm, my suppressants?” David handles most of Louis’ toiletries, like the sleeping pills he’d doled out earlier. He makes sure that Louis always has a toothbrush and that Louis’ never without a coffee or a water bottle, should he need one.

However, Louis has never trusted anyone, aside from his own mum, to handle his suppressants. They’re too important to fuck around with.

David shakes his head.

Together they dump out Louis’ backpack and sort through everything in it. No suppressants.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” David’s frowning as he says this and not quite looking into Louis’ eyes. “It’s just a few hours. We’ll be sure to have some for you when you get off the plane.”

He might be right and he might not. Usually, a few hours of missing hormone therapy doesn’t mean anything. But on rare occasions, it can fuck up everything.

Louis takes a breath and releases it shakily sitting back in his seat. It’s fine, he tells himself. He can’t do a thing about it now.

“I have to have them as soon as possible. Do not pass go.” He says this with his eyes closed.

“Absolutely,” David agrees.

Louis tries to push it from his mind, but instead he continuously relives the moments he spent packing. He usually doesn’t even take his suppressants out of his backpack, but he had the day before because he was getting toward the end of his current package and wanted to send a message to his Specialist. He’d been interrupted by Emma’s arrival with her Chinese and news about Harry.

He’d been so perturbed about Harry that he’d left the pills- he’s sure of it now- on the table beside his bed. He wonders if someone from his team picked them up before the hotel staff came in to clean. God, wouldn’t that be a nightmare? First, he ‘goes into heat.’ Then, someone finds out that he’s on suppressants and staged the whole thing.

He shakes his head. He’s a fucking idiot, but he can’t do anything about it now.

It _would_ serve him right. Harry’s accusations have been rolling around in his head like a pinball, pinging on and off every piece of his consciousness.

He’s a fake.

That’s what Zayn’s always said. That’s what the critics have always said. Hell, that’s what he tells himself when he winds down from a day of press.

He never shows the real Louis because the truth is, there is no ‘real Louis.’ Underneath his many masks, he’s a boring, hollowed out O, with little talent and an embarrassing amount of ambition, just like his mother but with less passion and no children into which he can pour the little he has.

God, fuck.

“Hey.” David’s voice cuts into Louis’ thoughts. “You’re alright. It’ll be alright.”

Louis wishes he could believe him. He wishes that instead of David’s pine body spray, he was breathing in coconut and instead of feeling David’s warmth beside him, he felt Harry’s cool fingers wrapping around his wrist.

~

Louis phones Harry as soon as his plane touches down. He’s sitting in the airport waiting for his car to arrive, David beside him hissing into his own mobile, diligently ordering a new prescription of suppressants from the drugstore that they could pick up on the way home.

“Styles,” Harry answers briskly. Louis’ name must’ve shown up on his screen and yet still he answers as though he has no idea who is on the other end. Louis’ spine tingles in discomfort.

“Hi Harry, I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

“Fine,” Harry curtly replies curtly. Louis wonders if he’s in the middle of something. The line is quiet, no traffic or music or talking behind him.

“I know we didn’t quite- our last conversation was, well, angry. But I wanted to apologize for how rude I was to you. It’d been a really difficult day. For me.”

“I understand that,” Harry says. “And you weren’t wrong about many of the things you said. Our relationship is a professional one and I’d let other feelings I had for you- affection, let’s say- cloud my judgement. I’m sorry I wasn’t in full control of my sensibilities.”

“What?” Louis asks, confused. He tries to remember back to their fight, but finds the memory hazy. The moments before, when they stood outside the limo are a sharp contrast, imprinted on his mind with blinding clarity thanks to the pap shots floating around.

“I wasn’t acting professional. My priorities haven’t been in the right place since we, you know, _fucked_. I’d been trying, you know, I had been. But it still didn’t work. I think it would be best to limit our contact going forward.”

“What?” Louis asks again. That’s not what he wants. “No.”

“Louis, unless you have something we need to talk about for work, I’m going to hang up.”

Louis had called him for a reason and he struggles to locate it in his mind. “I do need to talk to you.”

“Go on, then.”

Does he sound distracted? Louis can picture him returning to his computer, impatient with Louis’ fluttering thoughts.

“About the photos of you and I,” Louis remembers.

“Jake loved them,” Harry says.

“What?”

“He’s spinning it that you were so gone, you couldn’t even resist scenting your Alpha coworker who’d come to help relocate you to a safer location. Makes the episode even more convincing.”

“I wasn’t _scenting_ you.” It’s a lie and they both know it. Anyone who’s seen the picture would see right through his words. But suddenly, Louis feels defensive. He’d been worried about how the photos would make Harry feel, that Harry wouldn’t appreciate being thrown into the spotlight, his own presentation mixing with rumors about Louis. But now he feels something else.

Exposed.

That picture captured something _real,_ Louis realizes. The photograph of him leaning into Harry hadn’t been staged in any way. Louis had wanted the comfort of coconut. In that frightening moment, when he’d just pulled off the most alarming PR ruse of the century, Louis had wanted to breathe in Harry, to touch and be touched by him. And so he had.

And the whole world had seen.

It doesn’t matter that everyone, even Harry, believes themselves to be seeing something else. Louis is naked before them, either way.

“You won’t meet me for lunch, then?”

Harry’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Louis’ throat closes up and he has to force out the words, “Okay. Goodbye.”

~

Louis’ stomach growls and he pats it consolingly. He’s only just fed it an hour ago. He wonders what he’d find in the kitchen, if he pulled himself off the ground and went searching.

Above him, Liam sighs. “What’s blocking your focus?”

“What do you mean?”

“You came over here insistent that we pound out another two songs for the album. The final cut is being made in ten days. Do you realize how crazy that is? Crazier still because you seem to think you can just lie there and mope and the songs will simply write themselves.”

“Don’t be stupid, Liam. Songs don’t write themselves. You write them.”

“I’ve already written twelve tracks, to go along with the seven that Julian’s put together for you. I heard you and Ryan pushed out another four. You have plenty of music to choose from. When you wanted to book time here, I assumed that you had particular song or two that you were aiming to write.”

Louis taps his fingers against the wooden floor. He doesn’t like the implication that this is booked time and he’s just another client of Liam’s. They’re best friends, or they’re supposed to be.

“So either tell me what you want to write or talk through your block with me. I love you, Lou, you know that. But I don’t have time to waste right now.”

“You love me?”

Liam sighs again. “Yes.”

“What do you love about me? What do you even know about me?” Harry said that he’s a fake. And Louis believes him to be right. How can someone love a fake?

Liam is quiet for a moment and Louis wonders if he’ll brush Louis off. He should. Louis is fishing for compliments which doesn’t really point toward productivity. But Liam humors him.

“You’re creative, for one. Your writing always creates really beautiful pictures. It’s like you see the songs you’re writing as paintings or something.”

Louis feels himself flush. Liam’s said as much before, but Louis doesn’t think it’s true. He’s no more creative than anyone else, as far as he can tell.

“You’re hard-working.”

“Anyone can be hard-working; that’s a bad reason,” Louis mutters. Some people choose not to be, but that’s on them.

Liam laughs. “I suppose. You’re funny and charming. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be awkward with anyone.”

“That’s not a personality trait.” Louis’ impatience is growing. “That’s, like, a show I put on.”

“I’m not that charming,” Liam says. “I never could be.”

Great. His most defining characteristic is that he’s good at faking it. Perfect.

“You’re ambitious. You don’t give up. You fight for what you want. You’re willing to sacrifice all kinds of things to achieve your goals. You’re kind, even when you don’t have to be. You like making people feel good. Is that enough to unblock you? Because God, I sound like I’m in love with you.”

“You are in love with me. Everyone is,” Louis shoots back before he can stop himself.

Liam laughs. “Probably true.”

“I wish I were, like, generous or loyal or interested in birds.”

“What?”

“Those seem more, _real_ , you know? I feel like a fake.”

Liam kicks Louis in the foot and pain clatters up his leg.

“Ouch. What the fuck?”

“See, you’re a real boy. If you were fake, that wouldn’t have hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant, Leeyum.” But he looks up and he can see genuine affection in the smile on Liam’s face. Louis is here, _really actually_ writing a song or two for his album. He’s a person who with a heart and a body, just like everyone else.

He sits up on his elbows. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s what I want to do.”

~

They spend much of the next twenty four hours writing and recording and rewriting and when Liam sends Louis demos of the two songs three nights later, he cries listening to them. He knows they will make it onto the album and he’s proud.

#

Harry turns the key in his lock and his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he missed lunch for a meeting with Jake. He’s barely had time to breath, let alone eat since returning from the VMAs. The amount of press to sort through and stay three steps ahead of has kept everyone on their toes.

Walking into his flat, he has to step over a large flat envelope that’s been slid underneath his door. He wasn’t expecting anything priority.

It’s addressed to him, though, and he slides his finger into the corner and tears it open. At first, he thinks it’s empty but then he shakes it and two white pieces of cardstock tumble to the floor. He picks them up and examines them.

Tickets, two of them. To the Niall Horan charity event.

He hadn’t ordered any tickets. Unless he’d done so asleep. He walks over to his kitchen counter and checks his email and his bank account for any sign of the purchase.

Nothing.

He’d wanted these tickets. Or one of them, at least. But he has no idea how he’d have gotten them. No one, _literally no one_ , knows that he’s a fan.

He’s a little creeped out, to be honest, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to use them.

~

Harry’s picked his way through half the rolls by the time Nick appears to slide into his side of their usual booth. “Hullo, Nick.”

Nick sighs. “I can’t believe they let you attend the VMAs. Did you talk to Beyonce? Rihanna? Nick Jonas? Britney Spears? Zayn?”

“You’ve spoken to all those people more often than I have,” Harry reminds him. Because Nick has spoken to them all and Harry has, well, Harry has not.

“So.” Nick reaches for a roll. “How’s Louis Tomlinson’s ass? I see you two are fucking.” He’s having a bad day: cutting remarks and carbs straight away.

“We’re coworkers,” Harry reminds Nick (and himself).

Nick raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “I saw the way he was looking at you in that photograph. You might as well ask him to be your bondmate already. He’d accept. I mean, was he not a good fuck? Also, how was it? Getting him through the heat, I mean. I’ve always been weirdly curious. Not that I want to do it, just, like, what is it like?”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. Before Louis, Nick was the only person Harry ever allowed himself to cross professional boundaries with, grabbing lunch together, chatting about their families (or, rather, about Nick’s family), and, occasionally, having a meal or watching a film together as friends. Harry doesn’t have many friends and spending time with Nick gives Harry a powerful floaty feeling, like eating a hearty meal. He likes it.

Still, he’s never discussed his romantic life with Nick before, no matter how many times Nick’s tried to cajole it out of him. However, Nick’s never gotten this close to the truth in his prodding and protests well up inside Harry’s throat.

One slips free. “I didn’t help him through his heat because he didn’t actually have a heat.”

Nick’s eyes narrow. “Really? They’ve gotten good enough to stop heats part-way through, have they? Science these days is incredible.”

“Um, no.” Harry feels obligated to explain. For the sake of Science. “There’s nothing that can do that. Not yet, anyway.”

Nick’s gaze continues to press into Harry and so he elaborates, “Louis didn’t have a heat or anything like a heat. He was just pretending. For the splash.”

“That’s wild. Like when what’s-her-name pretended to be strung out, just so she’d be relevant. Or when that gangly, blonde O ‘accidentally’ made her sex-tape public. I wouldn’t think Louis would need to delve down to that level.”

Harry takes a bite of roll, but the dough tastes pasty suddenly. “He received a lot of press.”

Nick looks stricken. “Omegas in heat. That’s a serious thing. If he had been in heat, he would have been in real danger. I can’t imagine anyone _lying_ about that. I can’t imagine Louis agreeing to it.”

Harry felt the same way, of course, until he saw what it did for Louis’ presale numbers. “His sales are half again as much as Zayn’s.”

Nick’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when did you care about that little rivalry?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s my job to care about that kind of thing.”

Nick leans forward on his elbows, eyes gleaming. “Aha! You’ve had a row.”

Harry thinks back to the conversation they’d had in the back of the limo after the VMAs. He’s not sure he’d call it a row. No one had resorted to shouting and by the end of it and they both agreed with one another. Their last phone call had been absolutely civil.

“Our professional relationship is completely in tact.”

“Even though he’s a fraud.”

“His job is to put on a show that will sell and my job is help him make that show appealing so as to make the most money.”

“God, that’s cynical. I’ve never heard you talk like this. Clearly, they made a mistake putting you on that team. I had the impression that Emma was relatively humane.”

Harry remembers the meeting he’d had with Emma the morning after the VMAs; remembers the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hair had fallen almost completely out of its bun. Her makeup had faded and he could see that she’d broken out in spots overnight.

Of all the people involved the charade, Emma’d been hit the hardest.

“Emma’s wonderful. There’s just a lot of money at stake. This is the PR game being played at the highest level.” Harry knows the words are true, but they sound false coming out of his mouth. He’s spent the last week trying to convince himself that Louis and the higher-ups had made the right decision. The financials are inarguable.

But Harry still feels _off_ about it. Especially after Louis had sounded nearly apologetic on the phone, his tone hesitant and tired, as though he might regret what happened.

Nick’s frowning and rubbing his chin. “I still think you like him.”

“Of course I like him!” Harry explodes. “Everyone likes Louis! That’s one of his gifts: charming people.”

“Yeah, but you _like_ like him.”

Harry throws a roll at Nick just as their waiter comes into view, food orders thankfully derailing the rest of the conversation.

That evening, Harry turns on the Golf network, which is re-airing a special Niall had done last spring on his various putting techniques, and Nick’s words pop back into his head, _you_ like _like him._

Does Harry?

Of course, he’s attracted to Louis. He’s been nearly addicted to his scent since the first whiff he’d caught in Louis’ garden. And even before they met Harry found him physically appealing; blue eyes, round ass, big smile.

Harry regular-likes him, too, just as he easily admitted to Nick. He could listen to Louis’ stories about his mum, his music, his shenanigans on the X Factor- any of them, a thousand times over. Louis performances are captivating- drawing Harry in with his very first breath and not letting him go till the exhale after his very last note. Louis has a way with words and he’s able to make quick, difficult decisions and plan ahead; he’s good at pulling laughs out of Grandma’s and convincing Max to come ‘round to his point of view.

So, yeah, Harry likes him.

But does he _like_ like him?

Harry opens their thread of texts on his phone. This morning Louis sent him the cheese emoji- he had a photoshoot that Harry helped to arrange later in the day. The morning before it’d been the beach emoji, god only knows why. Two months ago, Harry would have replied with a barrage of question mark emojis.

He remembers the peach Louis sent the morning after they had sex. He wonders what Louis will send tomorrow. He imagines Louis sending a heart, or the emoji of the two men holding hands, or maybe the two men kissing.

He won’t, of course. They’re barely on speaking terms. But the possibility makes Harry’s stomach flutter hopefully.

He thinks that means Nick’s right. Harry _like_ likes him.

~

Harry studies the tickets under the lamplight. They’re legitimate. He’d called the box office to make certain he wasn’t being scammed.

Niall Horan Golfs for Colon Cancer

Saturday, September 15, 1pm

Harry doesn’t know who to bring. He’s embarrassed to think that he might display even a small measure of the excitement that’s tingling through his body at the simple thought of shaking Niall’s hand. He won’t be able to help himself, of course.

Nick would see straight through him. His sister would have to find a sitter for Lola, on top of which, she _hates_ golf. It was their father’s thing.

Of all his choices for companion, the Professor makes the most sense, but Harry thinks he’d rather go alone.

But then his father’s face lights up the screen on his phone at just that moment, as Harry’s rubbing the tickets between his fingers and feeling sorry for his lonely self.

“I’ve had a breakthrough.” His father sounds breathless. “Can we meet? No one here is back from holiday ‘til Tuesday.”

Harry opens his calendar. He should tell his father to wait for his colleagues, but he’s curious.

“Sunday evening would work,” he says.

“No, not for me. What about Saturday afternoon? Let’s do Saturday afternoon.”

It’s always been like this, father and son time, when it happens, happens on his father’s schedule, without regard for Harry’s own life and commitments. “I already have plans on Saturday afternoon.”

“What plans? What could be more important than this work? Than your own father?”

“I have tickets to a golf event.” His father understands golf. After all, he’d been the one who introduced Harry to the sport.

“The Niall Horan charity event? I was considering attending myself. We can go together. Unless, are you going with a boyfriend? Well, never mind that. I should be able to meet my own son’s dates. I’ll text you details for lunch.”

He hangs up and that’s that.

~

The day dawns just a touch too sunny for Harry’s taste. He’d been up late reading a whole series of tumblr posts that someone had made linking him to his father, claiming that the apple couldn’t have fallen far from the tree, politically speaking.

He’d been so offended that he’d almost texted his father to cancel. He hadn’t, though.

Harry arrives to lunch right on time and his dad is standing by the door, reading a newspaper. The professor isn’t one to keep Harry waiting, not when he has something to say.

The bell to the shop jingles a welcome overhead as his dad tosses his limp grey ponytail over his shoulder and says, “I was wrong. It’s been looking more and more like I fucked this little piece up for a while now.”

Sam Styles has been wrong about many, _many_ things. Harry wonders which one of these he’s figuring out now.

“I’m not completely on board with the analysis. They’ll have to repeat it a few times, of course. But I was a consult on the project, even if the lab at UCLA had the capacity to perform the actual experiment.”

“What project?” Harry asks, scooting out a plastic chair. The place is greasy, low-class. Harry expects they make a mean fry-up. Smells good, anyway.

“They believe they’ve proven that Alphas can control themselves around an O in heat and quite easily, when properly motivated.”

“Simmonds from Harvard has been saying that for twenty years.” Harry’d done quite a bit with her work in his thesis. She was leading expert on O behavior and experience, having a database that rivals his father’s filled with purely O interviews. Harry would pay quite a bit of money to get his hands on it.

“She’s a sociologist, not a proper scientist. Her conclusions have always been nothing more than a opinions backed up by anecdotal evidence. She doesn’t have the support of the field backing her up, either. This study does.”

“Dad, this isn’t some kind of revelation. All you have to do is be around an O in heat and you know that all that stuff about A’s having uncontrollable urges is bullshit.”

“Have you ever been around an O in heat?” His dad’s bushy eyebrows twitch up.

Harry’s about to say yes, but then he remembers that the whole thing with Louis had been faked. So he shakes his head. “But I can’t imagine-“

“That’s right. You can’t imagine.”

The table is quiet as his father’s words resonate between them. Harry remembers coming home from primary school one afternoon, excited to tell his parents about how he’d learned to make ice cream using snow. His father hadn’t been impressed. In fact, he’d sat Harry down and explained to him that what he’d made at school wasn’t real ice cream. Real ice cream contained eggs. Real ice cream had to be churned. And so on and so on.

At the time, Harry believed him. He’d taken each and every one of his dad’s teachings at face value. It wasn’t until he reached his teens that he began to question the way in which his father always had all the answers and handed them out with authority.

The waitress comes over with her pad and they both order the same full English, the same brown toast, and white coffee. When she walks away, his father says, “I saw you in the paper.”

“You did?” Harry’s heart drops. This is not how he wants his family to find out about his job. He wonders if his father has told his sister. Her words about him helping an O _fake a heat for PR_ would be harsher even than Nick’s.

“Two weeks back. You were eating out at a fancy restaurant. Couple of celebrities there at the same time. Your grandma would be proud. Your sister says you live in a nice place, but I didn’t realize you were such a high roller.”

“That’s what I live for dad, fancy dinners and rubbing shoulders with celebrities.”

His father laughs. “I didn’t raise you right. Tried to shed all the niceties.”

Their breakfasts arrive, steaming. Harry breathes a sigh of relief. They don’t speak again, at least not of anything aside from their food and Lola’s ballet recital photos on Facebook for the rest of the meal.

~

The day takes a turn for the worse when they’re standing in line to meet Niall after the match. The woman behind them pegs them immediately for father and son.

Harry’s nodding to her and allowing that they are, when the woman’s stops him midsentence, sticking out a finger and pointing it straight at Harry’s chest. “Hey, I’ve seen you before.”

His father coughs. “I did publish-“

But the woman laughs. “Not you, your boy. My daughter showed me a picture of you just the other day, I swear. You’re dating the popstar, Louis Tomlinson.”

A few other heads turn toward them.

His father says, “You’re dating a _musician_?”

“No, god no. No. I’m not dating Louis.” He wants to cover his face or run away. They’re only a few feet away from Niall now, though, and Harry’s never actually met him before in person. He can’t give up the chance.

The woman’s eyes widen and she smacks a hand over her mouth. “It’s supposed to be a secret, isn’t it? I’m so sorry.”

“You have the wrong person,” Harry insists, but half a dozen people are looking at them now.

The woman winks at him. “Oh, silly me, Harry Styles, silly me.”

“She knows your name,” his father hisses. “You’re dating a musician. As if having an artist for a mother and a writer for a sister wasn’t bad enough.”

Someone behind them has pulled out their phone and is taking a surreptitious snap of Harry. He’s not even famous. Louis is dating Kendall, everyone knows that. _Fuck._

The music that’s been playing in the background swells and Niall, who is only a few feet away now, announces loudly to his co-host of the event that this is his favorite song.

It’s _Story of My Life_ , because of course it is. The woman in front of them turns around to wink at Harry. Again.

When Harry shakes Niall’s hand, Niall’s shoulders are rolling along to the beat. When he realizes what he’s doing, he laughs at himself, turning pink.

“Sorry. _Love_ Tommo,” he says to Harry. “Such an amazing artist. I was hoping he’d be here today, but I don’t see him.”

Harry’s father humphs and Harry says, “You thought he’d be here today?”

Niall laugh again. He’s beet red, now. “My PA swore he bought tickets. I almost pissed myself.”

“Fuck,” Harry says.

“I _know_ ,” says Niall, scribbling a signature over the poster Harry’s handed him. “Too bad, he’s not here. _Love that guy_.”

A woman who Harry suspects is the very PA Niall mentioned motions Harry and his father to move along.

Harry’s head spins and as he walks from tent he realizes he’d just spent the entirety of his allotted time meeting _his idol_ talking about _Louis_.

Who had bought him tickets to see said idol in the first place. _Why?_ Why had Harry squandered his opportunity to _make friends_ with Niall and why had Louis sent him these tickets? And without saying anything?

Harry can’t focus on that now. After he parts with his dad, maybe, but now, he’s got other things to worry about.

“You can’t say anything about me and Louis to anyone.”

Gravel crunches under their feet as they walk to their cars.

His dad says, “He’s not an O, is he? Your boyfriend, I mean. Who am I kidding, of course he is. You’d better be careful. Don’t get him pregnant on accident. That’s not something you can take back. After kids, you just don’t have the same time to do the work you’re doing now.”

Is that would you would have liked to do, Harry doesn’t ask. Would you have liked to take me back so that you could focus on your research?

“I’m not the same person as you are,” Harry says. “I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

His father hums,”You don’t need to, son, you’re already making your own.”

They’re reached Harry’s car. “I sure as hell haven’t let my work become more important than the people that I care about and who care about me.”

His father sighs. “See that you never do.”

Harry’s eyes widen and as his father begins to walk away he thinks that may be the closest to an apology he’ll ever have.

His eyes are wet and he has to keep blinking and wiping at them to see the road as he drives. His father, the only person who has ever made him cry.

He never wants to be like him. _Never._

~

As Harry makes himself a late night cup of coffee, a text pings in from Louis. Aside from his daily emoji, most recently the OK button, Harry hasn’t heard from him in several days. Not about work. Not about the charity match.

Harry opens the text. _Check your email._ is all he’s said.

Harry waits until his drink is in hand, his feet up on the coffee table, and his laptop is open on his lap to open his email. _Check this out_ , the subject line reads. The body of the email contains a complicated password and link.

It’s the album, or a draft of it.

The first song reminds Harry of the evening they’d spend on Louis’ couch watching films and taking notes on A/O relationships, laughing and flirting and _touching._ The fourth reminds Harry of the moment they’d laid on the hotel bed together, Louis confessing that he didn’t trust Kendall the way he did Harry. Several of the later songs evoke the heat of the night they’d spent together. The second to last song is filled with regret and longing.

Harry pauses it halfway through and reopens Louis’ text window. He must’ve written these songs for Harry. He admitted he’d never been in a real relationship, not with an A, anyway. He described the feeling of fingers around his wrist and Harry knows that the only fingers Louis has ever felt that way are his own.

Then, Harry shakes his head to clear it. He’s being an idiot. Of course, the record has songs about an A/O relationship. Louis’ songwriters would have been directed to write exactly that, what with the coming out that lay ahead. Harry has no evidence that Louis’ written a word of this himself. And even if he’d helped, Harry has no reason to believe that he meant it for Harry.

Harry listens to the second half of the pining song and his heart hearts so badly by the end of it that he has to pause the music a second time to think.

Louis bought Harry those tickets, remembered Harry’s interest in golf and specifically in Niall Horan from their very first conversation. Not a day goes by without a six-thirty wake-up emoji from Louis and every single time his phone pings with those messages, Harry’s stomach flips.

Harry likes him. No, he thinks, he _like_ likes him. And after the promo season is over, after their relationship as coworkers has ceased, Harry will ask him out. He’s not going to be his father. He’s going to give this feeling, this relationship, a real chance.

He listens to the final song.

It’s happy. Proud. Powerful. He can picture Louis belting it out against a backdrop of pink triangles, wearing a soft grey turtleneck and jeans, his feat bare, the crowd shouting his name. It’s absolutely perfect.

He texts Louis _congratulations [champagne emoji]_.

#

Kendall buries her face in her arms as they wait for their drinks to arrive.

“I’m sorry that you had to fly out here,” Louis says. He knows she’s been busy with various fashion engagements, as well as with filming for her family’s show. Emma texted him to be prompt because Kendall was only able to be in town for eighteen hours.

“I have a shoot in London tomorrow morning. It’s fine.” Her words are muffled by her skin.

“Well, don’t mind me. By all means, use this time to get your beauty sleep.”

Kendall’s face pops up and she smiles. “Sorry. I’m being rude.”

Louis leans toward her, their noses almost touching. “Fans are nearby. They’re going to think we’re not into each other anymore.”

Kendall’s eyes narrow. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” She giggles and places her hand over his.

“No,” Louis replies quietly. Suddenly, he remembers the picture he’d liked of hers on Instagram yesterday. She’d been cuddled up to her best friend in big black leather chair, her fingers wrapped around her friend’s wrist, just as Harry’d done for him those few times before.

“The album drops tomorrow,” Kendall says. “I haven’t heard it yet.”

Louis smiles. He’s proud of the album. He hasn’t had to fake any of his excitement for it, which is truly a first. “Do you want a copy? I can send you one.”

“I think I’ll make a show of purchasing one myself tomorrow. How’s that?” She sighs and gazes at her phone. He wonders if she’s had a chance to talk to her girlfriend since landing in town. He guesses not.

But she doesn’t pick up the phone. Instead, she grins at him. It’s a little forced, but he appreciates the effort. “Do you have any plans to celebrate the release?”

“Album release party on Saturday,” he says. For some reason, that day is highlighted in his mind not because of the promo and not because he’s meant to perform a whole new slate of songs for the first time. It’s highlighted because it’s the first time he’ll see Harry Styles in person since the VMAs. It’s been nearly a month. They’ve corresponded via email and text. Louis has been faithful in sending his morning hello and Harry’s sent along reports and a few social media suggestions. Still, as per Harry’s request, they’ve managed to avoid each other in person.

He’d sent Harry the album, hoping that he might hear how much of Louis’ heart and feelings had been poured into it. Hoping he might see himself painted lovingly into the lyrics. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d simply typed _congratulations_.

Louis consoles himself to think that perhaps Harry didn’t actually listen to it. He’s a fan of techno, after all.

“Sorry, I’m leaving town too soon for it,” Kendall says. “I’m a terrible Alpha.”

“No, you’re not.” He’s thinking about her girlfriend.

She sighs. “But your actual A will be there, won’t he?”

Louis squints into his empty beer mug. “I don’t have an A.”

“It didn’t work out with you and Harry?” Kendall sounds outraged, her eyes the widest he’s seen them. “I could have sworn you two were crazy about each other. He chased after you at the VMAs. You two didn’t leave to do the do?”

Louis shrugs. “His feelings were purely professional, he says.”

Kendall laughs. “Wanting to fuck you into tomorrow is not a professional feeling.”

Louis swallows. “Well.”

“Oh my god, go after him,” Kendall says. “He’s being an idiot, clearly. But you’re smarter than that.” She smiles to herself as though she has a wonderful secret. “I had to set my lady straight about some things. Convince her we were worth fighting for.”

“You’re an Alpha,” Louis says. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a fan with a phone. He scoots even closer into Kendall’s space.

Kendall puts an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t buy that bullshit, neither do you and neither does your Harry. Go get your guy.”

Louis breathes in deeply, but her scent is all wrong, as is the way she squeezes his shoulder and nods firmly. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. Not by her and not by Harry.

Louis resolves that once the promo season finishes, he’ll confront Harry. Maybe Harry will be able to hear things better then, too. Their relationship will no longer be ‘professional’ after all.

~

Zayn tweets a link to the final song on the album late Saturday. It’s planned, of course, and the song he just happens to link to on Spotify will be the radio single Louis’ team announces next week.

After the link, **@Zayn_Malik: kinda don’t hate this wet-ass shit**

And then, **@Zayn_Malik: but it is fake as hell**

To which Louis replies, **@Louis_Tomlinson: not fake** and a link to a Youtube video. He can’t watch the video back, even though he swears to Emma that he has and that he’s happy with it. He knows his coming out sounds cheesy as hell. He knows it’s awkward and strange and will lose him many thousands, perhaps even millions, of fans and followers. His team has its fingers crossed that it wins more.

Harry wasn’t happy with the plan, according to Emma.

They’d been walking out to his car after a PR meeting, Harry conspicuously absent. She handed Louis a muffin, and said lightly, as though it were just a passing thought, “Harry tried to quit when he heard how the label planned to release the video. He can’t yet, of course. But he was furious. Didn’t think your coming out should be part of a feud with Zayn, said that you should be able to stand on your own, for once.”

Louis’d been too stunned to respond.

Louis appreciates the sentiment, but knows well the argument that such an act would not do the same for sales as the more scandalous reveal.

~

Positive reviews pour in, his phone buzzing with friends and family linking to an abundance of glowing commentary. His sound has matured. His lyrics are brave.

He’s bared his soul for this one, they say.

He shouldn’t be alone right now. It’s a private piece of advice shared from artist to artist: make sure that you’re well supported in the days after the release of new album. Surround yourself with friends and family. Go on a quick exotic getaway (without your phone, if possible).

Louis has spent the last two album releases at home with his mum. They’d ordered his favorite takeaway and eaten it on a blanket on her sprawling back lawn, just the two of them. She’d update him on the kids. She’d tell him about her volunteering at their school. And then, after a couple of glasses of wine, she’d start to drift to stories of her days as an actress.

After the release of his second album, she’d told him about falling in love with his father and the heartbreak that followed. It was the first time he could remember her ever speaking of it. They’d talked late into the evening and then gone inside to watch a kids film on the couch, her new children cuddled up to them.

She wouldn’t say a word about the music until the next morning. As they cooked together, they’d listen to the entire album, all the way through and she would tell him her favorite parts and he’d tell her his.

She’d offered to do the same this time but something had changed between them since his faked heat.

She’d called his phone within minutes of the news breaking and when he’d finally gotten the chance to ring her back hours later, she’d been sick with worry. However, as soon as he’d reassured her that he was fine, hadn’t gone into heat at all, her tone had turned brittle. It’s stayed brittle all these weeks, too. He can’t bear to hear it like that again, not right now.

Liam is in LA, making some final changes to Zayn’s album, due to release next week. He offered to fly back after their meeting, as though he’d known that Louis might find himself alone. Louis declined with a brusque laugh.

Louis almost calls Harry to come over, but then when he opens Harry’s message chain on his phone and sees weeks of his own unanswered emojis, he can’t bring himself to do it.

So Louis finds himself on his king sized bed, comforter smelling like an unfamiliar laundry soap, staring at the broad empty ceiling of his room and wondering what his life would be like if he could stop worrying about what everyone else thought of him and, instead, simply be.

He hears the click of his cat’s nails on the hardwood floor and feels the soft bounce as she hops onto the bed beside him. Purring, she wanders up his body, stepping awkwardly onto his crotch and stomach before curling up in the hollow between his neck and ear.

He’s not totally alone, then. Her purring slows to even, shallow breaths.

He expects sleep to come to him as well, but it doesn’t. The night drags on and his skin begins to feel itchy.

He imagines opening up his phone or his computer and searching out articles and reviews that might be less than flattering. He knows once he starts he won’t be able to stop. He needs at least a little sleep tonight. Tomorrow he has album release party, with the concert at noon and a press junket afterward. He needs his rest.

Eventually he dozes off only to wake a few hours later, wet with sweat and still hot. He turns his air conditioning up and gazes longingly at his phone before closing his eyes again and waiting for the five am alarm.

#

Harry studies the crowd. Many of the girls close to the stage already know all the words to the song, memorized the whole of it in less than twenty-four hours. The album hadn’t even leaked ahead of time. They’re just _that_ excited about it.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d spent the last day clicking through press piece after press piece calling Louis’ work ‘a pop feast’ and ‘the Starry Night of Modern Rock’ and ‘the songs we’ll be singing to our children _and_ our grandchildren.’ Only a few cranky indie journos seemed to have anything negative to say and even they aren’t daring to push their critiques too far, not with Louis’ coming out in everyone’s mind.

Harry knows all the words, too. They’ve been rattling around his brain for the last week or so, popping up instead of the words he means to type in business emails and flying from his lips to fill his tiny tiled bathroom as he showered. Some of Louis’ images are so specific to their situation and when he sings them, here in a room packed with people, Harry wants to catch his eye and wink. Let him know he’s in on the secret.

He doesn’t, though. Watching Louis’ video, fingering the tickets he’s kept from the Niall Horan charity event and imagining Louis purchasing them _for him_ , reading Louis’ texts (this morning a flame), Harry’s determination to confront him and ask him out has solidified.

But he can’t think too hard about it now, or he’ll be distracted from his job. Which is to measure the crowd’s reaction to Louis’ statements about his presentation. He’d had an intern checking signs, trashing everything they found at the door, regardless of content. Signs make for poor TV. But she’d also been told to keep an eye on what kinds of signs people were bringing in, to keep an estimate of what percentage were related to Louis’ presentation and note how many were negative.

Harry won’t ask for the results until after the guests have left. He’s doesn’t trust himself not to lash out at anyone who dared to write anything less than completely supportive.

The room goes quiet and Harry realizes that Louis has stopped singing. He’s wiping his forehead with a towel that’s sat on the edge of the stage. He’s sweating a lot. Harry knows the lights are hot, but still. He wonders if he’s coming down with something. It is the season, after all.

Louis flashes his hand to the band and then to the camera crew. Into his mic, he grins and says, “Need a wee.”

Harry laughs at the way he pitches the last word up and waggles his eyebrows, making the statement funny instead of embarrassing.

When he comes back on stage five long minutes later, he’s taken off his sweater and replaced it with a loose, white tank top. His hair is wet, like he’s stuck it under the sink, but he’s smiling more broadly than ever.

Harry can’t take his eyes off of him.

“Hey!” The word is spoken loudly, and Harry realizes it’s probably not the first time it’s been said. He turns to see Emma twisting her hands together in front of her chest.

“Hi,” Harry says slowly. He wants to turn back toward the stage.

The lines on Emma’s forehead are pronounced. “I think something might be wrong,” she says.

“What?” He suddenly realizes that he knows nothing about Emma. He doesn’t know if she has a family or dogs. He doesn’t know her presentation or even if she likes her job. “Do you need me to take over so you can run home or something?”

“No, not with me. With Louis.”

Harry does turn back to the stage now. Louis is dumping a water bottle over his head. His shirt turns from opaque to translucent in an instant and Harry can’t help but trace the outline of his pecs with his eyes. His tiny nipples are dark and hard.

“You see what I mean?” Emma asks.

“What?” Harry asks, blinking and trying to disentangle his gaze from Louis’ body, but he’s caught, stuck in Louis’ web waiting for him to notice.

“He’s out of control.”

“He seems fine to me.” Louis’ eyes are closed and he’s sliding up and down the mic stand. It’s very rock and roll, but a tame, non-drugged out version that won’t scare the parents in the crowd away.

“He’s okay, yeah. But he’s not following his choreography, walking to stage left, when he’s meant to be staked out on stage right, hanging out at the end of the catwalk when he’s supposed to be in the middle of it. On top of which, he should have waited one more song and then he could have had that toilet break when we’d planned it. I know you haven’t been to many of his performances, Harry, but he _never_ goes off script. Never.”

Harry knows that Louis likes when things go according to plan. He knows that each and every piece of his public persona has been researched and crafted to maximize sales _and_ profits and so he’s happy to go along with it.

“Maybe the coming out rattled him. Did you talk to him today?” Harry asks, finally (and with great effort) tearing his gaze away from Louis again.

“Yeah, I did. Did _you_ talk to him today?”

Harry shakes his head. “We’re not on the best of terms.”

She sighs. “He seemed to have it together before the show, but just barely. He was really stressed out. He got like this a bit last year, after the break up with Eleanor. He wasn’t sure how people would react, which bothers him. And he spent the hour before his first ‘single’ appearance pacing up and down the halls backstage, generally driving everyone on his team insane.”

The music is transitioning from one song to another. Harry recognizes the opening chords, sad and soft. It’s the pining song, the song he hopes might be meant for him. He wants to turn around.

“So he’s just nervous. That seems reasonable.”

Emma sighs. “It was different. He kept putting his sweater on and then taking it off again. And he was constantly running his hands through his hair. He said he felt hot and itchy.”

“Sounds like stress to me,” Harry says, but he’s not really listening closely anymore. He’s turned back to the stage to find Louis looking out at him across the crowd. His heart stutters.

“He wanted me to send an intern out to buy him aloe. _Aloe_. As in, the gel you put on burns. Except he doesn’t have any burns. Harry, are you hearing what I’m saying?”

“No, I’m enjoying this concert.”

“Well, I’m saying I think he’s in heat. Like, for real, this time.”

Harry squints at Louis. “That’s impossible.”

“You’re impossible. You’re supposed to be the _expert_ on this stuff.” Harry thinks she stalks away, but he isn’t certain. He’s lost in the blue of Louis’ eyes, wishing he were closer to the stage. Nearer, he might be able to catch a whiff of Louis’ soft floral scent.

~

Max’s eyebrows draw together as he catches sight of something past Harry’s shoulder and he stops speaking mid-sentence. Harry thinks he’d been about to ask for an update on the real time fan reactions to Louis’ O message in his music, but they can have that conversation tomorrow at the office.

“I’ll let you get back to it, then. See you Monday.” Harry begins to step around Max, move toward the exit and the comfort of his couch.

“Harry, wait,” Max says, catching his arm. “I want you to sit in on these interviews. I’m- Emma told me she thinks something’s off with Louis. I can’t tell, but you’re familiar with Omega behavior. We could use an expert.”

Harry frowns. “Why don’t you just ask him if anything is wrong?”

“Great idea!” Max claps his hands together. “Why don’t you?”

He’s not getting home in time for supper. No time to relax this evening. He should have expected it. It _is_ promo season, after all. Still, the question irks him and he stalks toward Louis with irritation needling at his fingers and toes.

Emma and Louis need to face one another and have a brief conversation about how rattled they both have been by the coming out. Emma can say her piece about mistrusting Louis after he faked a heat. Louis can say his piece about looking out for the numbers. Then they can move forward with the day and Harry can go look at pictures of Niall Horan on his phone, or something.

He stops halfway across the room, as he becomes aware of the rolling cameras. Louis is in the midst of an interview.

The interviewer is a woman, probably around their own age, with a broad, American smile and too-white tennis shoes. She’s in a chair opposite Louis with several feet of space between them. Or rather, there should be several feet of space between them. However, she’s leaning toward him, pupils blown wide.

That’s when it hits him: the smell. Sweet and familiar, but heavy enough to be almost cloying. Harry’s dick twitches and he turns his gaze back to Louis.

A drop of sweat inches down his neck and disappears below the collar of his shirt. His hands are fisted and his jaw is set. His eyes, though dark with arousal, look determined rather than fevered.

Louis knows what’s happening, he must. And, yet, he’s keeping on, pushing through. Harry almost laughs. This man will let _nothing_ get in his way.

For his part, Harry feels the draw of Louis’ heated skin even from several yards away, tastes Louis’ scent in the air, tempting him. He wants to pull Louis close and kiss him. He wants to hide him away from all the prying eyes that watch him now.

He suddenly can’t believe that he’d thought that Louis had been in heat before. He would have smelled Louis. He would have felt an echoing arousal.

Harry walks over to Jim from the label who’s here to oversee the press junket. Into his ear so as not to be caught on tape, Harry whispers, “We have to cut it off. He needs to get out of here.”

Jim’s face remains blank. “It’s just another fake heat. It worked so well the last time. Rinse and repeat, right?”

“It’s not fake,” Harry growls. He can barely breathe, Louis’ scent is so thick. He can’t be the only scenter in the room. Surely others have noticed.

“All the better.” Jim raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. He nods toward the interview, “Let me do my job and you do yours.”

“This is dangerous,” Harry presses. “He _needs_ to get somewhere safe. He can’t be comfortable. His arse is probably leaking all over his pants.”

Jim smirks. “This is why Os shouldn’t go into the business. Can’t back out on the day of your album press junket just because you’re feeling a little under the weather.”

“Under the weather?”

The interview finishes and the woman rises, moving toward Louis. Harry strides in between them.

“I need a word with the artist,” Harry tells her, sharply.

She scowls at him, but Harry can’t dwell on her reaction long because Louis plasters his body against Harry’s, burying his face in Harry’s neck.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” His lips move softly against Harry’s throat. Everyone in the room must be watching them. Harry feels himself flush hot. “This is really hard. Just a few more and then you’ll take me home?”

“I should take you home now,” Harry rasps.

“Emma said I have three more and then I can go. I can sit through three more. That’s less than an hour.”

Harry lets his hand slide down Louis’ arm, feeling the heat and weight of it. He wraps his fingers around Louis’ wrist. His pulse is racing.

“Oh my god!” A shrill voice intones and over Louis’ shoulder Harry can see Louis’ stylist slap a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are on the seat of Louis’ pants.

Louis turns his head but doesn’t pull free from Harry’s grasp. “What?”

The woman’s eyes stay wide and the room is quiet, aside from the hushed voices of the cameramen arguing over the logistics of the next interview. “Nothing. I just realized something. Sorry.”

Louis turns to Harry. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m so _stupid_. I was so anxious about everything after the VMAs that I forgot my pills. One late dose and this happens.”

“Shh,” Harry says, allowing himself the small pleasure of pulling Louis into his arms. “We need to get you out of here.”

“But-“ Louis cuts off when Harry squeezes his wrist again. “Yeah, I need you to take me home.”

#

But Harry does not take Louis home. Harry drags him by the wrist into the loo and slams the door behind him. He’s frowning and his eyes are so dark. Louis can see nothing but the black of them and can smell nothing but coconut.

He lets his own eyes travel down Harry’s body and rest on the bulge at his crotch. Louis knows he’s sporting a matching erection, perhaps even more pronounced in the fitted trousers they’ve practically painted onto him, but his is not nearly as interesting as Harry’s.

He meets Harry’s eyes again. He thinks Harry might eat him alive, licking and biting and sucking him down inch by inch. Or Harry might murder him. His brows are drawn tight, his arms folded across his chest and it’s hard for Louis to tell what he’s thinking.

“I didn’t mean to go off my suppressants. But I did miss a day. I’m not faking it and this isn’t part of any plan.” If Harry’s to help him- and Louis needs his help- Harry needs to know that nothing about what’s happening to Louis’ body is a lie.

“I believe you,” Harry says. “You’d never do this on purpose. You hate being out of control.” His voice is clipped and his eyes are closed. He’s erected a wall between them, something cool and hard and impenetrable.

Or maybe, Louis thinks desperately, it’s glass and he can shatter it. “I need your help.”

Harry’s eyes open, but his face remains dark and impassive. “When did you realize that your heat was coming on? Minutes ago? Hours? Days?”

“I didn’t know for sure until I arrived on location this morning.”

Harry doesn’t speak. Louis doesn’t know if he’s waiting for Louis to say more or if he’s doing some sort of elaborate calculation in his head, trying to figure out just how far along Louis is.

“I’d been hot all night, but I chalked it up to the weather or a maybe a cold. But then my pants had slick on them when I went to wee right before the show.”

Louis remembers his horror upon pulling them down and seeing the small wet streak. He’d shuddered, a little grossed out. Why was he feeling aroused? _Was_ he feeling aroused? Then, everything had clicked into place, the itchy skin, the night sweats, the way his clothes had felt too heavy.

But when he’d looked at himself in the mirror, already covered in stage make-up, hair slicked up with product, he decided not to say a word to anyone. Most heats took twenty-four hours to settle, or so he’d read. This was one of the most important days of his career and if he ran away, he’d look weak. No way for his team to spin it without him looking like a coward.

He could handle this. He’d never had a problem covering up his problems in the past, not when his grandma had died nor when his mum had confided she’d gotten pregnant again nor when the last single on his first album had flopped by industry standards. He’d always been able to plaster on a smile, go out on stage, and do his fucking job: entertain.

The room echoes with the quiet. Louis’ trousers feel tight on his thighs and ass. He says, “I really thought I’d be able to make it through the day before things got out of hand.”

Harry shakes his head. “How could you know? You’ve never been in heat before.”

Louis shrugs. “I can’t be sure, but on this topic, I may have done more research than you.”

Harry nods. “I’ve seen your bookshelf.”

Louis closes his eyes as another wave of heat streaks from his middle out to the ends of his limbs. He thinks about a cold shower. A jump in the ocean. An ice cube sliding down the back of his shirt.

“We have to get you home.” Harry looks at his phone. “With traffic, you can be there in about forty minutes.”

His home is empty, save the cat. Emptier than his ass. “Will you come with me? I know we’re not together and we’ve never discussed you helping me through a heat, but…” He trails off. He knows that Harry will finish the thought.

Harry bites his lower lip. It’s already red and Louis knows he’s been biting it all day long. Louis knows because he’s been watching Harry. It’s been difficult for him to look anywhere else.

“It’s just, from everything I’ve read, it’s safer and smoother for an O to be with an A they trust than alone. I trust that you won’t, erm, take advantage.”

The corner of Harry’s lip twitches. “As if I could. As if you’d let me, even in this state.”

Louis’ eyes flick up and down Harry’s body. He’s fit, bigger and broader than Louis. But Louis suspects he’s right. Louis could take him in a fight. He’s scrappier, plays dirtier. Louis has always been willing to sacrifice a little dignity for a win.

“So you’ll do it?”

Harry releases a breath. “I’ll do it.” Then, he smiles. “I’d be honored to take you home.”

Louis feels his body flood with relief. Until Harry spoke the words, Louis hadn’t realized how ready he’d been to hear them.

“Oh, thank god. Let’s get the fuck out of here. My pants are ruined. That one cameraman was looking at me like I was a chocolate cake. And I’m so damn hot.”

Harry says, “I’ll drive.”

Louis stiffens. “Will you be able to?” He’s thinking about Harry’s cock, thick and ready in Harry’s trousers.

Harry makes a scoffing noise. “Of course,” he says.

~

In the car, Harry says, “This doesn’t have to mean anything more than a friend helping a friend. I’ll understand if you want nothing to do with me after this.”

Louis tucks his chin and then flushes. He _will_ want something to do with Harry after this. He suspects he’ll always want something to do with Harry. Instead of repeating the same dumb shit he’d already turned into music, he says, “Same, of course.”

Harry scowls.

“Why don’t-“ Harry begins and then stops, tapping a finger to his chin.

He clicks his blinker on, but Louis knows this is not a turn he should be taking to get to Louis’ home.

“Why don’t what?” Louis asks.

“I think we should go to my flat,” Harry says. “It’s closer.”

Louis has never been to Harry’s flat; he doesn’t even know what part of town it’s in. He says, “Okay.”

The drive does not feel shorter and when Louis looks at the clock, he decides that Harry can’t’ve saved them more than five minutes. Still, Harry’s home will be thick with Harry’s scent and spending the next twenty-four hours buried in Harry’s sheets sounds soothing and overwhelming all at once.

~

Louis’ senses are full of Harry. Harry is all Louis can see, all Louis can smell, all Louis can think about. Harry doesn’t seem nearly as affected. His movements are calm and measured, maybe even more graceful than usual. He hasn’t looked at Louis once since they clamored out of the car, all his energy focused on leading them inside. Even when he’d opened Louis’ car door and held open the heavy glass door in the front of the building, his eyes didn’t meet Louis’.

Louis sees, though, that when Harry’s finger fumble to pull his keys from his pocket, they are shaking. Harry’s sweating, too, both of them are after three flights of stairs.

Louis says, “It’s okay. It’ll be alright.”

Harry turns. The door is still closed, the key not yet quite in its place. He shoots Louis a look, half-smile, half-pout, his lower lip popping out. “I’m supposed to say that to you.”

Louis isn’t fooled. Harry’s not upset. His dimples are deepening and his eyes, narrowed mischievously. Still, Louis says, “It’s just you and me. There’s no ‘supposed to’ here.”

“No,” Harry whispers. “There isn’t.”

He twists the key and Louis’ eyes catch on his thick wrist and the dark hair that trails up his arm. Louis wonders what would happen if he wrapped his fingers around Harry’s wrist, if Harry would feel the thrum of Louis’ pulse against his own as a balm.

Harry steps aside to let Louis in first. It’s cool in the apartment, cooler than in the hall and as it hits Louis, his overheated skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“Shit,” Harry says, rushing past him and toward the thermostat. “I keep the heat low in the day, when I’m out.”

“Practical,” Louis says. He wonders what his house is like during the day, whether it’s kept cold or not. He doesn’t even know who makes that decision. Probably Irma, or maybe his PA.

With Harry’s back turned, Louis’ eyes travel over his apartment.

“Nice place,” Louis says and realizes that he means it. It’s tiny. The kitchen and living area blending into one. A short hall to his left presumably leads to the bedroom and bath.

The ceilings are low and the walls are covered in bookshelves and posters and photographs. Louis would never have pegged Harry for a homemaker, but all the decor fits together- browns and blues and greens. Earth tones.

Louis thinks of Liam’s music room with the big window that opens up to the woods.

He likes the illusion of communing with nature.

A worn, brown leather couch with a cream throw over it sits at the heart of the space. Harry’s laptop is closed on the table in front of it and a pair of house slippers lay tucked up against it.

An image flashes through Louis’ mind: Harry stretched out on his back, eyes closed, with Louis’ cat on sat on his stomach when Louis himself stands in the doorway, just as he is now, after a long day at the studio, takeaway in hand.

He blinks the image away. That’s not how it would be, of course. He and Harry would never live here, not when Louis can afford something larger and more luxurious, not when Louis has already purchased what he’d believed to be the home of his dreams.

“It’s cozy.” Harry’s folded his arms over his chest and he’s biting his lip again.

Louis nods and strides toward him. “I love your couch,” he says. “I want you to fuck me on it.”

Harry’s eyes narrow and he reaches out to pull Louis into his embrace. His touch flips a switch inside Louis, heat rippling through him until all at once he’s aware of a dull empty ache in his ass. He does want Harry to fuck him and soon.

He pulls away. He needs to clear his head. He needs to make this happen.

His clothes. They have to come off. As he thinks this, his fingers are already pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head. As soon as he’s free, Harry’s hands are on him again. His mouth opens against his throat, sucking and biting.

Louis’ breath catches and he arches against Harry, pushing in with a thigh to feel Harry’s hardness. Harry wants this, too. He wants the same thing that Louis’ does: his cock in Louis’ ass.

Louis steps back again and Harry groans, his fingers chasing Louis. Louis pushes them away.

He has to _make_ this happen _faster_. He begins to unbutton his trousers with several flicks of his wrist.

“Lou.” His voice is rough and lower than a whisper. Louis meets his gaze and freezes. He’s done something wrong. Harry isn’t happy with him. Harry doesn’t want this. He’s going too fast, or maybe too slow. He looks down at his chest. It’s flushed red, nipples dark and pebbled.

“What?” Louis hates the whine that laces his tone, but he can’t help it.

“You can slow down. We’re not in a rush.” He’s wearing a soft, easy smile. Louis can almost feel tears welling up in the corners of his own eyes at the sight of it. Maybe Harry’s not in a rush, but his ass hasn’t been throbbing since morning, his skin isn’t so hot he wants to rip it off.

Louis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Think_. He needs Harry’s affection. He needs Harry’s arousal and participation. What does Harry like, he wonders desperately.

He remembers Harry’s gaze hot on him earlier in the day, when he’d been on stage, practically making love to that mic stand.

Harry likes a show. Louis can give him a show.

“Okay.” Louis steps several more feet away from Harry, until his bum presses up against the arm of the leather couch. It’s cold against Louis’ skin. _Everything_ is cold against Louis’ skin.

He slides his trousers down, an inch and then another inch and then another, careful not to take his pants down as well, even more careful to keep his eyes on Harry’s face.

Harry doesn’t match his gaze, though. Harry watches the movement of his trousers, large eyes eating up each new swath of skin that Louis reveals for him.

Louis folds them, paying attention to the creases. His fingers are the ones trembling now.

Standing in only his pants, he faces Harry, arms loose at his sides. “Do you like what you see?”

“I want to touch you,” Harry says.

Louis tilts his head. Harry isn’t one to lie. Heat makes people crazy.

“Wait,” he says, even though he doesn’t want Harry to wait at all.

“Louis,” Harry says. “I want to take care of you. I want to kiss every inch of your skin and then I want to open you up, finger by finger, so that you’ll feel nothing but pleasure and relief when I finally slip inside you.”

He’s reaching out for Louis again and this time, Louis lets him in. He lets Harry do just as he says, kiss a path down his chest and suck at a spot just below Louis’ belly button.

Louis blacks out for a moment and when he opens his eyes again and takes a deep breath, he’s sat on the edge of the couch.

He’ll have ruined it, realizes, his wet ass leaving a stain that Harry will likely never be able to repair. He’ll buy Harry a new couch, he thinks, but the thought makes him feel sad.

He doesn’t think Harry would want a new couch.

“Lou,” Harry says. Louis feels the breath of the word against his cock.

Harry’s on his knees and his fingers are sliding Louis’ pants over his hips and down his thighs.

This is all wrong.

Unlike the last time Harry’d been on his knees before Louis, this isn’t a date, fake or otherwise. It’s not about experience, or even pleasure. It’s about the fact that Louis is an O and Harry is an A and they _need_ each other. They’re not lazily plucking notes on a piano trying to figure out what works best. They’re on a deadline, with the worst of Louis’ heat breathing down their necks, pushing them toward something particular and final.

But Harry’s mouth feels so good when it opens around the tip of his cock that Louis can’t find it in himself to stop him or to urge him onwards. His mind slips to black again. He’s not lost consciousness. He knows exactly what’s happening around him, but the world has turned soft and smooth, as though he’s wrapped tight in a velvet blanket and all he can do is be still and enjoy it.

When Harry pulls off of him, Louis opens his eyes. He can feel Harry’s fingers, two or three of them probably, sliding in and out of his ass. He doesn’t know when that had begun, but he can’t complain.

Blinking down at Harry, he says, “How do you want me?”

Harry’s brows draw together. “Just like this.”

“I mean, what position is best for you when we fuck?”

Harry chokes out a laugh and shakes his head. “What’s best for you? That’s what’s best for me.”

“That can’t be true.” Harry’s fingers have sped up and Louis’ mind is slipping back toward that dark, warm place where he’d been just a moment before. He struggles against it. “I know you must have a preference.”

“Louis.” Harry’s voice is firm. “You’re in heat. I want to make you comfortable.”

Louis bears down onto Harry’s fingers. All he wants is Harry inside him- and quickly. “Do you think I’m sexy?”

Harry tugs his fingers out of Louis’ ass and Louis’ heart pauses. He’s said the wrong thing. Words like this float around the back of Louis’ consciousness almost constantly, but he’s good about silencing them, even to himself. He’s never said them to a lover before and he doesn’t think he can’t honestly blame the heat.

Harry’s not walking away though, no. Harry’s pulling Louis up and against him, wrapping Louis legs around his waist, carrying him down the hallway and into a darkened room. He walks with slight waddle, unused to maneuvering Louis’ weight and the awkward rocking of it rubs the bare skin of Louis’ thigh against Harry’s clothed cock. He drops Louis onto a pile of blankets that smell like sweat and coconut.

“I want to knot you,” he says, arching so that Louis can feel the truth of his words hard.

Louis’ hands fly to the buttons at the top of Harry’s trousers. “Yes,” he says. “God, yes.”

Harry pushes away his hands. “I’ve heard that heat can be wonderful, the best moments of their lives, for Os who are able to let go. I know you like to be in charge of every detail. I know you’re happiest when you’re putting on a show, making other people happy. I know that and you’re so good at it. But I think that right now you should let me do the worrying. Let me do the prepping. Let me do the work.”

Louis meets Harry’s eyes, breathes deeply, and relaxes his shoulders.

“That’s it.” Harry’s mouth moves against his chin. “Now close your eyes.”

Louis does. Harry’s hand works Louis’ cock. One pull and another and another. His hand feels hotter than Louis’ overheated skin, branding him. On the fourth stroke, Louis comes, wetness spurting against his stomach. He loses his breath and it’s a moment before he realizes he should try to catch it again.

“I’ve got you,” Harry murmurs. Louis hadn’t realized how close he’d been, how badly he’d needed Harry’s strong grip.

“Thank you.”

Harry hums and Louis can feel Harry’s fingers sliding into him again and then out. He shudders at the heat of Harry’s cockhead breaching him. Harry does have him. He does.

Louis allows himself to slip back into that soft, dark place he’d discovered earlier and that’s where he stays for a while.

The world turns white later, perhaps minutes, but maybe hours. Harry comes with a shout, nails digging into the sides of Louis’ arms, sending pinpricks of pleasure shivering out. He stays like that for a moment, before guiding a hand between their bodies to tug at Louis’ cock in firm, even strokes.

Louis shudders through his second orgasm, aware of the weight and thickness of Harry’s cock, still inside him, knotting them together.

Louis has this sense that they’ve left Harry’s bedroom. They’re floating in a hot springs, high up in the mountains, air cool and water warm, their bodies tight and wet together. They’re deep in the jungle, surrounded by huge trees and dangerous animals, but wrapped in a dark cocoon, sheltered from anything that might harm them. They’re nowhere and everywhere and Louis doesn’t ever want to leave.

#

Harry wakes up slowly, body overly hot. He turns instinctively to look at the alarm clock beside his bed. It reads 9:35 which doesn’t make sense to Harry. He never sleeps that late, even on weekends, and the room is so dark.

Beside him, the blankets move and he rolls over in alarm to find Louis, kicking off a cover and rearranging his head against the pillow. Harry’s eyes travel up and down his body, landing briefly, warmly on his bare ankle, hanging off the bed, and the tattoo adorning it. It twitches under Harry’s gaze. Louis is asleep, breathing evenly, though, and the afternoon and evening come back to Harry in a rush.

He slides his thighs against one another, testing the weight of his cock and stickiness of skin. He needs a shower.

A few minutes later, as the water cascades down his back, his mind turns to Louis. He thinks about the way he’d given in, finally gone lax at Harry’s touch, the way his head fell backward, baring his throat, eager for a mark. He’d been so loud, shouting both times he’d reached his climax. Harry didn’t even think he’d realized that noises filling the room were coming from him.

Harry’s smiling when he steps out of the shower and looks into the mirror. By professional standards, Harry shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have fucked Louis, shouldn’t have taken Louis to his home.

Still, he doesn’t regret it. He walks back into his bedroom, curls up beside Louis, who blinks slowly awake. Louis smiles broadly enough that his laugh lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“Take me again,” he whispers.

Harry doesn’t know if he’s still in heat. His eyes aren’t nearly as cloudy as they’d been earlier, but his skin is still flushed and his ass is still wet and Harry is more than happy to take him again.

He’s slower this time, allowing himself to revel in Louis’ heat before his orgasm reaches its peak. They’re both gasping for breath when Harry finds that sweet spot inside Louis. He doesn’t even mean to- he’s not looking for anything but mutual release.

But he angles his hips and Louis cries, tears suddenly streaming out the corners of eyes. Harry repeats the motion. Instead of quieting, relaxing into the feeling, Louis becomes louder and louder and louder until Harry realizes that he’s spilling between them.

His ass pulls tight at Harry and so Harry thrusts fast and hard, trying to catch up. They’re both moaning when he comes.

Harry holds Louis close afterwards. He wants to tell him things- sweet, happy things. He wants to make promises, spin out his fantasies about their future, but he stays quiet. He doesn’t know how this will fall out between them. He knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know if it’s what Louis wants, doesn’t know if Louis even _knows_ what he wants.

So, instead of talking, he breathes Louis in, runs his fingers through Louis’ hair, counts Louis’ breaths until they both fall back into sleep.

~

The following noon, Harry emerges from their fort of blankets and sex to dig through his fridge in search of food. So many old takeaway containers. He’s not sure if the curry is from this week or last or if he’d ordered that veggie pizza this past Sunday or two Sundays back. Eventually he finds what he’s looking for: a carton of eggs, shoved all the way against the wall, underneath a half-empty jar of jam and some molding pickles.

In the meat drawer, right where it’s supposed to be, he finds a package of sausages. He twists the lid and sniffs at them. They don’t stink.

He’s turning around to heat the stove when he smells Louis walk into the room. He freezes and faces him. His heat might not have fully abated yet. Harry wouldn’t mind another slow round of fucking.

Louis pulls out a chair at the little two person table that sits between the kitchen and the couch. He doesn’t say a word to Harry, as he picks up a golf magazine from atop a stack of old mail which is settled between Harry’s laptop case and an empty box of cereal.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Harry doesn’t know what to say either, when it comes down to it.

“I’ve been practicing my omelet cooking skills. Does that sound alright?”

Louis looks up at him. He’d been staring for several long moments at Niall’s smiling face. Harry can’t say that he hasn’t done the same.

“Yeah.” His voice cracks Harry open in one rough tap of a word. Harry feels like his heart is spilling out between them. Louis’ face is puffy with sleep, hair pushed up on one side of his head, but his eyes are bright, awake. He’d made it through his heat alright.

Harry nods, stiffly, and turns back to the stove. He busies himself with bread for toast and butter- both of which he finds already out on his counter. He feels Louis gaze, lazy and hot on his back.

Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with heartache. He wants this meager breakfast to be perfect, for Louis to find in it the nutrition he needs and enjoy every bite. Harry wonders if the yearning is biological, if he’d feel the same devotion to any Omega he’d fucked or if Louis is special.

He thinks about the way that Louis laughs when he’s meeting his fans, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and the heat of Louis’ hand on the small of his back, when he guided Harry through the club on their ‘date.’

No matter the biology of it, Louis is special.

Harry fixes Louis’ tea with the eggs sizzling on the stove and sets it down, still steeping, in front of him. “I don’t have any milk,” he says.

“You know how I take my tea.” Louis rasps, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry wants to lean in and kiss him, but he’s really unsure about where they stand, so he only nods and replies, “Of course.”

Louis’ smile broadens.

They’re quiet but for the hiss of oil in the pan and the clink of dishes until Louis finishes his eggs. He eats quickly and Harry knows he’s probably hungry for more. He’s about to go back into the kitchen to retrieve a couple of the takeaway menus he’s stuck to the front of his fridge, when Louis says, “Thank you.”

Harry stills. Most of his own omelet remains uneaten, still steaming on his plate, soaking into a slice of unbuttered toast.

“Louis.” He takes a breath. “I’ve really- I’m so glad I could do this for you.”

Fuck, but that sounds lame. Almost pitying.

Louis nods. “You didn’t have to. This wasn’t part of your job, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

Harry chokes out a laugh. “Obviously, not. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’ll have a job when I get back to the office. This was highly unprofessional.”

Louis looks away, lines appearing on his forehead. Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He hadn’t meant to sound sharp.

“Louis, I wanted to. I feel honored you let me. I’ve thought about it before.”

Louis’ gaze returns to Harry’s face, eyes wide, and Harry steels himself. Louis’ life may be a show and Harry only a character in it, but that’s not how it is for Harry and he finally has enough courage to say as much.

“I really like you,” he says. And then, softly, “None of our ‘dates’ felt like mere practice to me.”

He’d meant to make this confession, later, after promo season. He hadn’t wanted to upset Louis at the most important moment of his career, nor did he want their professional relationship compromised. Too late now.

Louis’ eyes narrow. “No?”

Harry shakes his head.

Louis stands and walks around the table, a slow smile breaking out across his face. He pushes Harry’s chair back from the table with a hard shove and situates himself on Harry’s lap, facing him. “I lied to you, before,” he says.

Harry tilts his head. This doesn’t surprise him, but it’s not what he’d expected Louis to say, not while smiling, with his hands on Harry’s shoulders and his arousal wafting up and around them. “Which time?”

Louis eyebrows scrunch and his eyes turn stormy, but then his expression clears and his smile reforms. “I _was_ anxious about my dates with Kendall. I didn’t know how an A/O relationship would work. That was true. But I didn’t want to ‘practice’ date you. I wanted to really date you and really kiss you and really fuck you.”

Harry relaxes, but he doesn’t allow himself to smile, not yet. He says, “That’s a little dirty. You really expect me to be into you after you began this relationship built on lies and pretenses.”

Louis tucks his chin and Harry’s heart stutters. “The fact that I trusted you is not a lie or a pretense. It never was. You’re so calm, a steady mind and- ”

“A steady heart,” Harry finishes for him. It’s the lyrics to one of Louis’ new songs.

Harry lifts Louis hand and presses it against his chest. “My heart’s not so steady now.”

Louis shakes his head. “Yes, it is. Fast, yeah, but still steady.”

Harry leans forward to bring their lips together in a kiss. Louis likes him, trusts him, wants all the things between them to be as real as they feel to Harry.

~

 

Thoughts of work reappear an hour later, while they’re waiting for takeaway. Louis is in the shower, cleaning multiple rounds of orgasms and a layer of heat-sweat from his skin and Harry takes the moment alone to check his phone.

He has a dozen missed calls, all from co-workers at the firm. A few have left voicemails which Harry decides not to check.

Instead, he opens his email.

Scanning through it, he realizes several things all at once: their exit had not gone unnoticed, but had been caught on camera by dozens of entertainment journalist all finishing up or waiting on interviews with Louis. Harry had not been fired. To the contrary, his coworkers, though surprised, were treating him as though he had new insight into Louis’ situation. It’s already late in the day, nearly twenty-four hours after they’d left the studio and the latest barrage of messages is begging him to let them know if Louis would be able to sit his interviews scheduled for the following morning.

Harry’s staring at a blank message, trying to figure out exactly where to begin, when Louis returns to the living area. His hair is damp, sticking up from a hearty toweling and he’s wearing an oversized blue tee-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Harry’s university scenter society.

“They want to know about your interviews tomorrow,” Harry says.

Louis licks his lips. “Will you come with me?”

“I’m not going to be interviewed.” Just the thought makes Harry’s stomach flip.

Louis laughs. “No, I mean. I’d just feel better about going out, um, so soon, if you were able to be there too.” He tugs at the hem of the shirt and looks away. “I mean, I’ll do it either way.”

“I can come,” Harry says. “Max asked me to be there for it ages ago.”

“Do you feel like it’ll be a problem?” Louis asks. “You’ve said a thousand times that you don’t want our relationship to be unprofessional. Do you feel like, if we keep, um, dating and mating, do you feel like it’ll become a problem for our work?”

Harry’s surprised by the question. This seems like the sort of thing Louis would have thought through ahead of time, as meticulous as he is with his image and his PR team.

Harry thinks about how bitterly he’s felt toward Kendall. Then he thinks about the emails he’s received from Emma and Jake, how glad they’d been that he was with Louis, how hopeful they were that he might be able to help salvage the media nightmare yesterday had turned into.

“I think,” he says, “that some parts will be more difficult. That sometimes my feelings will get in the way of what’s best for you. That’s already happened, actually. But I also think that this could help. I know you so well and can advocate for you, for _us._ ”

“So you’re not going to leave my team?” Louis asks. The distance between them, only a few yards, feels like the breadth of the ocean. Louis might as well be in New York City, the two of them shouting over their phones, static filling the spaces between their words.

Harry says, “I don’t want to leave you. I won’t, if you’ll have me.”

The buzzer cuts on. Their takeaway.

“Thank _god_ ,” Louis says and crosses the room to hug him tightly, nose in his neck, breathing deeply.

~

The weight of what they’ve done settles onto Harry. Louis’ first heats, fake and real, had been heavily publicized. In that way, something’s been taken from him, something private and wonderful he can never retrieve. This shouldn’t be something than anyone other than the two of them should be able to own.

And yet.

There it is. On tumblr, the two of them leaving the studio together. It’s not the first time that Harry’s followed him out while he seemed to be in heat. The team was able to keep the journalists present for the junket quiet, so this time the only evidence is poor-quality fan videos. But it's enough. The fans know it and many are latching onto that as proof of a more-than-professional relationship.

Reactions are mixed; some righteously angry at Harry for taking advantage, some pleased that Louis’ found a steady partner who seems to have his best interests at heart. Still others- backed by a press release and Louis’ team- assert that Harry’s a member of Louis’ staff, making sure that he arrived home safely. Louis spent this most recent heat alone.

The last sets Harry’s teeth on edge. Louis’ experience is no longer his own to write and share. And that’s not fair.

As anger bubbles up in his chest, Harry realizes he might have been wrong. Being Louis’ Alpha and being on his team might not work for him, not in the long term, anyway.

~

The studio is surprisingly quiet, nothing like the media circus they’d walked out on two days before. The camera crew moves their equipment carefully into place, taking tests shots of the two chairs set in front of the green screen. A woman sets a steaming tea cup on the coffee table.

Louis’ team- just Emma, Harry, Louis’ stylist, and Max today- is munching on fudge Emma’s made for the occasion, oddly subdued. No one has mentioned Louis’ heat and hasty departure. James Corden and Louis are meeting in James’ dressing room, privately. This upsets Max, who would prefer to dictate every question and answer, but he’d allowed it, given the circumstances. As he waits for them to reappear, gaze steady on the hallway they’d disappeared into, his left eye twitches.

Emma says, “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

It’ll be their first quiet day in over a week. Harry does have plans- plans not to leave his couch. “Do you?” Harry deflects.

“Pies,” she says. “My best friend is coming over and we are going to make a half dozen pies.”

Louis and James return to the set, laughing. Harry’s met James before, but only once, in passing. He knows that James and Louis go way back, having met during Louis’ mum’s brief time in the spotlight.

As they chat, Louis’ eyes are sparkling and his shoulders are relaxed, gestures loose and broad. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him quite so at ease in a professional setting.

He understands, now, why Louis had insisted James have the first interview dealing with his presentation, despite James’ reputation as more of a comedian than a serious journalist. It helps, of course, that Louis’ label has multiple deals in the works with James’ network and that the two share a management company. But Harry can see now that the choice was made for reasons of comfort and compassion, as well.

The interview is private, no studio audience, and pre-taped, just like the post-album launch party interviews had been, but this conversation will be longer and James will be allowed, encouraged even, to ask much more personal questions.

Harry wanders up to Louis and James.

He stretches his hand out in James’ direction, interrupting their laugher. James turns to Harry with a happy smirk.

“Hello there, handsome,” James says.

“It’s Harry,” Harry says at the same time as Louis says, “Exactly who I wanted you to meet. This is Harry.”

“James,” James says, eyes narrowing. “So you’re the one taking care of this rascal? Good. He needs someone to keep him in line.”

Harry feels his eyes widen. It’s illegal for Alphas to physically punish their Omegas and has been for years. Many still do it, though, and with pride.

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t-“

James laughs, “A pinch right on that huge ass should shut him right up.”

To which Louis replies, “Oh, shove off.”

Harry flushes hot, realizing the joke. “You can’t laugh about those kinds of things in the interview.” James and Louis stare at him blankly, so he adds, lamely, “Louis is the one who keeps me in line, anyway.”

Louis chuckles and so does James. “That, I believe.” He looks between Harry and Louis and then adds, “It’s nice to meet you, Harry, but I’ve got to go for my final powder before we sit down to do this.” The make-up is already caked thick on his face and as he walks away Harry has the feeling he’s giving them space.

“How are you doing?” Harry asks.

Louis grins. “It’s good to see James. He’ll do a good job.”

Harry can’t smile in return. Despite James’ friendliness and Louis’ cheer, he feels ill at ease. “This can’t be an easy thing to do.”

Louis mouth tightens. “It’s easier than releasing that video on the heels of Zayn’s Twitter comment.”

A heaviness settles over Harry. He feels terribly guilty that he’d been avoiding Louis at the exact moment Louis probably needed him the most. “I’m sorry.”

Louis sighs. “Me too. But this will be better, redeem things a little, I think.” He smiles again, but it’s not as bright as it had been, and Harry reaches out to wrap his fingers around Louis’ wrist.

“The emoji you sent me while I was in the shower this morning-“ -Harry thinks of the bright red heart at the bottom of their text conversation- “Same.”

Louis blinks. He steps closer. “I want to kiss you.”

“Later,” Harry says, squeezing his wrist and then letting go.

~

The interview moves smoothly from casual chit chat to questions about the album to the more serious topic at hand: Louis’ presentation.

Harry shivers each time Louis say it, clearly and directly, “I am an Omega” and “Since I’m an Omega” and “Being an O.” Louis himself never wavers in his conviction, doesn’t show any of the shyness or nerves that Harry’s witnessed over the last six months.

At one point, Louis touches his neck, unconsciously fingering the mark that Harry had given him.

James says, “That mark? Would you like to get a real one, someday, and an Alpha bondmate to go with it?

Louis frowns and so does Harry. The team had planned to avoid questions about _current relationships,_ as Louis allegedly spent his heat alone and Kendall’s team was prepared to deny that they were ever more than friends in a few days time, but no one had said anything about asking into Louis’ future.

A broad oversight. Whatever answer Louis gives will likely be cut from the final edit set to air during James’ show that evening.

“I feel like that’s a trick question. No good answer. Because an Alpha who I really like and who really likes me is watching this interview. I’m hoping for a future with this knothead. You know, the white picket fence kind with a ‘‘til death do us part” bond and a big house that we fill with two dogs and three kids.”

Harry’s heart turns over in his chest. He’s always wanted a family home. He can imagine just how it would be for Louis and himself, waking up early in the morning to calm a crying infant, letting the dogs out back before they pissed in the house (again), and ordering coffee and takeaway delivered to their home for breakfast.

They’d laugh constantly at their own ineptitude at homemaking and feel incredibly grateful for the luxuries that life had afforded them. If Louis is half as excited as he is about their future, Harry doesn’t understand why the answer to James’ question would be anything other than straightforward.

“But you know who else is watching? My mum, and thousands of other Omegas who don’t have Alpha partners who treat them well and many who don’t even want them. Yes, I’m imagining a future bond to an Alpha, a very particular Alpha, but if that doesn’t work out- or I didn’t have this person in the first place- I wouldn’t be. Omega’s don’t need to be bonded to Alphas to be fulfilled. I mean, I certainly don’t.”

Louis meets Harry’s eye and Harry could swear that he winks.

~

Harry does indeed spend the next day at home recovering from the busy week. In late afternoon, deceptively bright October sunshine streaming in through his kitchen window and lighting up his entire flat, he curls up on his couch, reading Golf Digest (specifically a Phil Mickelson interview in which the golf legend had spoken about what fun he’d had playing against Niall Horan) and texting back and forth with Louis. They’re sending photos of potential pets they might adopt together. It started with kittens, quickly moved to puppies, and then onto wolves and cheetahs. Harry’s shaking his head over Louis’ latest addition- Lady Gaga (rude!)- when a notification of an email from his sister pops up on the top of his screen with the subject line: Louis Tomlinson.

He opens the email, curious. She’s linked him to a YouTube video of Louis’ interview from last night. Harry’s already watched it (three times over). He doesn’t understand why she’d sent it to him.

His heart pumps wildly in his chest. His father must’ve spilled the beans, telling his mother and sister about Harry’s association with the famous ‘artist.’

He dials his sister’s number.

“Harry!” She sounds surprised, but happy.

“I can explain. We work together. I didn’t mean- I swear I never took advantage. Really, he’s the one that’s taken the lead on everything. I mean, I know that things can be tricky during heat, but we talked it through, a bit before, and more in depth afterward. I was exactly who he wanted with him. Everything was consensual on both of our parts.”

“What are you talking about? Have you got an Omega boyfriend, then?”

Harry drops phone and then fumbles for it. She doesn’t know. He could keep it so, too. Dozens of ways to end the conversation right now pop into his head.

He breathes deeply. “Yeah, I have. I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you sent me Louis’ interview.”

“How would I know?”

“Why else would you send me that interview?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I thought the guy spoke eloquently about Omega issues, which are relevant to my life and your work. That seems a lot more plausible than me somehow discovering you had a secret, nameless boyfriend that I wanted to protect.”

The line is quiet.

“Is Mum with you?” It’s a long shot, but sometimes his mum spends her Saturdays with them to maximize her Lola time.

“Yeah, actually, she is.”

“Are you in a private place?” Less of a long shot. Amelia can be something of a homebody, like himself, he supposes.

“Sure, do you want me to put you on speaker so you can share your _big news_ with both of us?”

The way she lays on the words ‘big news’ makes Harry laugh. She’s gonna be a lot more surprised than she anticipates.

“Yeah.”

He listens for the shift in sound over the line.

“You have to keep this a secret,” he says.

Amelia laughs and his mum says, “What do I have to keep a secret?”

“Promise me you’ll keep it a secret. I should probably make you sign papers. I don’t know what the protocol-“ He cuts off. He trusts them.

“Promise.”

“Of course, we promise.”

“I’m dating Louis Tomlinson.”

“Stop.” Amelia cracks up. “Oh my god. You really had me going there-“

 _“_ Louis _who_?” His mum asks. “Is he the old man judge on that X Factor show? I thought you had better taste.”

“I’m serious, Amelia. I helped him through his most recent heat. If you Google our names, there are photographs. We work together and one thing led to another…”

“You _work_ with him?”

“ _Who_?” His mum asks.

“The Omega popstar, Mum, the one whose interview we just watched.”

“Oh, I like him,” his mum says.

“Me too,” says Harry.

“Oh my god, there _are_ photos. Harry James Styles, you’d better be on the next train home to explain yourself.” Amelia’s voice is filled with laughter.

“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mum,” Harry says, even though he’s already looking up the train schedule for this evening.

“Well, I am and I agree with her. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you. We’re at Amelia’s now, but I can do up the guest room at home for you later. If you leave now, you can be here before Lola’s bedtime. She’d love to see her uncle.”

“Okay,” he says because he’d like to see her, too. He’d like to see all of them. He might even like to explain himself and his Omega boyfriend.

#

 

When Louis returns home from Harry's after the heat,he'd found his cat on the kitchen counter inspecting a fruit basket. In it is a little card that says, _I'm sorry. I love you. -Mum._  

He calls her up immediately. 

"Oh thank God, you're alright," she answers. 

"Why the fruit?" Not that Louis is complaining. He's still hungry and the pears look delicious.  

"I'm sorry for keeping my distance, after the VMAs. I was angry. I did so much. I tried so hard to make it so that you would  _never_ have to go through a heat, especially not in the public eye. And then to find out you had _faked_ one for promo! It hurt." 

Louis nods and says, "I know. I wish I could take it back." He's not proud of what he'd done. But he hadn't felt like he'd had much of a choice.

"But you can't have felt like you had much of a choice. I know those guys from the label put a lot of pressure on you."

 "Yeah." 

"I love you and I will stand by you  _always_." She sounds so fierce and he can picture her, phone close to her face, long hair floating around her, eyes closed. She means it. 

"I love you, too, mum." 

"Come over. We've got an album to listen to," she whispers. 

~

The next evening, Louis and his mum are sitting out on her back lawn, watching the sun set over the hills in the distance. They've finished reviewing the album and have moved on to Louis' eventful past week. She’s already cried twice, at the first mentions of his surprise heat and the interview he’d done with James, and her eyes are still red-rimmed.

“So. An Alpha?” Louis’ mum’s voice raises on the final syllable and wobbles a little.

“I didn’t spend that heat alone,” Louis admits taking a sip of his beer.

She reaches for her wine glass, but it’s long empty. She says, “Tell me about him. Styles, right?”

Louis looks at her. He’s surprised she knows, but then she’s always kept track of his press, even the wildest rumors. “Right.”

She lifts a carefully manicured brow. In the glow of the setting sun, she still looks young and beautiful. She _is_ young and beautiful _._ She won’t be as out of place with the parents of her younger children’s friends as she was with those of his. She was so young, _too young_ , when she had him.

“Well?” She prompts. “You said you want to _bond_ with him…”

“I did not,” Louis snaps. He hadn’t said that, though it might be true, eventually. “We met through work.”

“Obviously,” his mum says. “Go on.”

“He’s really calm. And smart. And nonjudgmental. He’s quiet, willing to let me, you know, set the pace of things. Not what you’d expect of an Alpha, really.”

“I told you not to write off those Styles.”

Louis scowls at her. “From what I hear, his father is an asshole.”

“But not your Styles,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “Not mine.” Referring to Harry that way, as _his_ , gives him a little thrill.

“When do I get to meet him?”

“Never.”

“I’ll track him down and find him myself, if I have to,” she says, and Louis believes her.

“Not yet, Mum. He’s a little weird about family stuff. Slow to trust, you know? I don’t know much about his family, aside from that his father wrote that book and he hates him.”

His mum hums. “We all have our bruises. We’re all healing from something.” She reaches up to pull at a tuft of his hair. “Even you, pudding.”

He flushes and nods, thinking about the last few months and the stress of coming out and then about growing up in that tiny flat in the city, his mum leaving him home alone long before she should have to go out for audition after audition, to receive rejection after rejection.

“Are you glad you came out?” his mum asks. “Do you think you’ll be happier, handsome Alphas aside?”

The sun is completely below the horizon now and white clouds streak a bright orange sky. He wants to ask about the purpose of such a question- what’s done is done- but he doesn’t think his mum would be satisfied with that response. She has a habit of picking at these _feelings_ things if she believes them not fully answered.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to figure out how to explain the way it feels. Maybe like the universe has eased up on him. Or like before he’d been bundled up in all his warmest winter gear which had grown stiflingly hot and coming out had been like taking it off piece by piece, until he was breathing and moving more easily than he’d realized possible.

“I feel like it’s easier to be me,” he tells her. “Like, I don’t have to think so hard about every gesture and word.”

As she leans closer to him, her hair brushing his shoulder, he realizes that she’s crying again. “I’m so glad,” she says. “It took me a lot longer for that feeling to come- not ‘til we moved out of the city and I was in business school. You’re lucky and I’m glad for it.”

For the first time that evening, Louis feels answering tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. They don’t fall, but it’s a close thing.

“I am lucky,” Louis whispers to the greying sky.

~

The following Sunday afternoon finds Harry and Louis in the same place they’d been the week before, at Harry’s little kitchen table eating breakfast for dinner. Harry’s made them omelets again, as he’s trying for perfection. He’s not there- this batch is a little dry- but he’s coming closer.

Louis says, “Did you watch the video?”

Harry nods, without asking which video he means. There’s only one video that anyone’s spoken a word about these last few days. “His promo team is better than yours. I’m sorry.”

“No way. Are you kidding me?” Louis shakes his head and takes another bite of omelet. Then, he says, “They are pretty good, though.”

“When we listened the album all the way through together yesterday morning, I asked you what the hell a song about marriage was doing on Zayn’s track list, didn’t I?”

Louis nods, because he had.

“And then, during his fucking Album Release Party, he pulls that poor girl- well, honestly, this was probably _such_ a great way to jumpstart her modeling career- but he pulls her up on stage on with him and he gets down on one knee.”

“Both knees,” Louis corrects, because he wants it known that the knothead couldn’t even pull off a proper proposal. That’s probably why the girl had-

“And then the girl said _no,_ she doesn’t want to marry him. God, brilliant. Everyone videoing and live tweeting the whole thing. And now he can play up the whole broken-hearted vibe for the next six months.”

Louis nods. He knows from experience how that look can boost sales in their target demographic.

“If I’d pulled you up on stage,” Louis says. “And I went down on _one_ knee- because I would do it right- to propose to _you_ via a song I’d written, would you do that to me? Leave me hanging like that?”

Harry turns pink and pokes at his eggs, the corners of his lips lifting into a small smile. After a moment he says, “Louis that wasn’t a real proposal, obviously.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Mine would be, if it were to you. Obviously.”

His heart skitters a little. He’s really pushing the boundaries of their newly solidified relationship, testing the waters not only about marriage, but about a _huge_ role reversal. He’s _never_ heard of an Omega proposing a bond before, not publicly.

“Louis,” Harry says, still avoiding his eyes.

Louis relents and poses the question he’s actually curious about, instead. “Would you be comfortable with the public knowing about us? Ideally, with a less dramatic reveal, of course.”

Harry looks at him. His eyes are wide and green. Then, he looks over at the couch and bites his lower lip. “I don’t ever want to be in the spotlight. I’m not- I don’t want to be famous. I don’t have the energy for it. Not like you do.”

Louis feels his heart drop. He can’t imagine dropping out of the public eye himself. He loves his work and would never quit it willingly. His eyes begin to fill, but he doesn’t want to cry. This doesn’t have to mean-

“I wouldn’t mind if people knew you had a boyfriend, though, or that it was me. I just wouldn’t want to do interviews or be papped or anything like that, I don’t think.”

Louis’ insides turn over and upside down and then float high. He feels himself grinning. “Of course. And this isn’t, like, something that would happen soon. The team won’t want to do anything like that this promo run, but afterwards…”

Harry nods. “Afterwards.”

They’re quiet for a moment, finishing their meals.

Then, Harry says, “Speaking of afterwards, I’ve started applying for fellowships. I want to leave Shady Lane and go back into research.”

Louis feels his brows draw together. He can’t imagine doing this work without Harry by his side.

“I would still be happy to talk with _you_ about your work, but I just- I want to have time to write again. I want to put together my own studies, collect the data I want.” His voice is rich with passion and Louis feels a surge of jealousy. But then he remembers the shy smile Harry’d worn when Louis joked about proposing to him.

“Of course, you’ll still help me. I won’t let you hear the end of it. You think you’re a workaholic, but you’re not, not compared to me.” His voice sounds too brusque and Harry’s bringing his thumb to his mouth to bite at it, so Louis adds, “I think that’s really wonderful. That was the plan all along, wasn’t it? To make some money and then return to academia?”

Harry nods, hand dropping into his lap. “I’m glad you understand.”

Their shared gaze lengthens and Louis smells a strong waft of coconut. Harry’s thinking about his ass, probably, which twitches in response to the scent. They still have one more thing to do, though, before the night gets away from them.

“Emma was supposed to send the first comparison numbers along. We won’t know the final results until after holiday sales are through, but we can get an idea of who’s won this one, me or Zayn.”

“You have,” Harry says. “No matter the numbers. Your album’s better _and_ you came out, the first male Omega on the top forty charts to do so. You win.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “The numbers _always_ matter, you of all people should know this.”

That startles a laugh out of Harry. He rises, his chair scraping against the tile floor, and nods to the couch where his laptop is laying.

They sit, hip to hip, as Harry pulls up his email. Emma’s simple subject line doesn’t doesn’t give anything away: L v. Z Early Charts.

“Do you think we did it?” Harry asks.

Louis hums, a non-answer. He doesn’t know and Harry’s right. A lot of important things depend on these numbers- ratings and partnerships and big ticket invitations to perform and profit margins- but they don’t matter as much to Louis as they might once have.

Louis leans his head onto Harry’s shoulder, breathing him in, and Harry clicks open the results.

**Author's Note:**

> phew. 
> 
> [tumblr post](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/151986831725/cameras-flashing-for-lululawrence-by)  
>  
> 
> Key
> 
>  
> 
>  _A_ : slang for Alpha  
>  _Ala_ : slang for Alpha-Loving Alpha, or an Alpha who is attracted other Alphas  
>  _knothead_ : slur used to describe Alphas  
>  _O_ : slang for Omega  
>  _Olo_ : slang for Omega-Loving Omega, or an Omega who is attracted to other Omegas  
>  _scenter_ : a term used to describe both Alphas and Omegas  
>  _wet-ass_ : slur used to describe Omegas


End file.
